I am the substance
From anxious drinking to 5-months California sober
I bet you look good on the dance floor
“I want to dance, but I’m not drunk enough.”
My friend shares this with me as she scans the birthday party, only to find a still crowd of responsible adults casually chatting. Thankfully, there weren’t any recent college grads throwing up on the floor. But then, who was there to break the ice and grant everyone permission to let loose?
“Shawty got them Apple Bottom jeans, boots with the fur!”
My arms flail into the air. I’m singing along — “the whole club was looking at her!” I’m waving my body left to right like a grandma who just popped a pill in Ibiza — back slightly hunched, big ol’ grin on my face.
And you bet I look good on the dance floor.
Literally. My skin glows in a way it didn’t a few months ago — less puffy, more hydrated, and brighter. I look alive.
I feel alive.
The beat of the music moves through me. And I am pure unadulterated energy.
My friends laugh in this moment of goofiness and join me. We’re the only ones dancing in the room. Nobody cares, but so what if they did?
To think, it all started without one drop of alcohol.
I am the substance.
The original recipe for disaster
Every substance has a formula. I started as a recipe for disaster.
The first time I got drunk and blacked out was when I was a sophomore at a high school house party, learning to drown my problems. The next day, I heard I’d been crying and banging on my friend’s mom’s bedroom door, shouting names I swore I’d never say out loud again.
In my senior year of college, I was embarrassed that I had no plans after graduation and nowhere to live. I took as many shots as I could until I forgot that I was a complete loser. The next morning, I learned that I had gotten kicked out of a Vegas club and dragged my friends down an escalator with me — all that after whining, “I WANT PANCAKES!” getting the pancakes, then saying, “I don’t want pancakes.”
In my late 20s in New York, I realized I didn’t have the community I thought I did. Being in a group chat with couples felt like togetherness, but it’s hard to get close to them when they often come as a package deal. So I drank, and let strangers distract me from how lonely I felt.
One night at a house show, the alcohol made the sense of belonging feel real. We were waiting for one of my favorite DJs to drop “Drugs in Amsterdam.” He teased it throughout the night. We all knew what he was doing, and we laughed every time. When the beat finally dropped, we were screaming the lyrics together like we were best friends. In that moment, we probably thought it was fate. It was just alcohol. We exchanged Instagrams — and we forgot each other the minute we turned around.
At times, alcohol would distort my reality, make me believe the fantasy was real, and lower my guard — but sometimes it would surface everything I had been burying.
Sometimes, alcohol would make everything so hilarious and exciting, while being a cozy, weighted blanket. Stress would leave my body as I felt held. You could tell me the same shit about why New York City is great because it’s walkable, and I’d enthusiastically agree. But sober me would think, “cool story, bro…” What a fucking happy campfire moment. Everyone is fired up about surface-level conversations I don’t give a shit about.
Yet, I would do all of this just to be hungover and spend $25 on a bowl of mediocre pho in Brooklyn (sorry, I’m a spoiled brat from being around Orange County and San Jose).
Some other nights were just networking or corporate events. I’d be standing around, drink in hand, thinking:
Fuck this music that sounds safe and polite.
Fuck this conversation about work that’s passionless.
Fuck all this talking just to talk.
So I drank. It made it easier to nod. Laugh. Smile. Repeat.
Drinking gave me something to do with my hands. Something to talk about. Something to listen to.
And drinking helped with bonding, too. My friends, 6 years later, still talk about the times we’d go all out at the open bar as a pre-game at the company happy hour before dancing the night away at Monroe’s. It was a time of youthful degeneracy that none of us ever forget — too young to think about getting married anytime soon or having kids.
I guess that’s the complicated part about drinking — it wasn’t always bad. There were great times. And there were ordinary ones. That’s what made it hard to stop at all — until I started training for a marathon.
Running on fumes to fuel
After my relationship ended nearly a year ago, I felt like I had just won the lottery — what was I going to do with all this mental currency?
Some people would buy fancy cars if they hit the jackpot. I was paid out in energy. Before that, I’d been in energy debt — worrying about whether my partner would show up in certain ways I needed.
Instead of crashing out, I cashed out.
I became the shiny new vehicle, the one steering me toward a tangible solo journey, a marathon. It would force me to practice showing up for myself physically.
Instead of crying tears, I sweat.
Showing up started like running a few miles. Then a few miles in 30-degree weather. Then more miles in 10mph wind chill and 5 degrees cold — even after procrastinating until 11 PM to get my miles in.
But the training got harder and forced me to evaluate what was draining my energy.
One night, I drank a shot of tequila with a friend, thinking that this would be completely harmless. The next day, my Whoop fitness tracker had a 30% recovery metric, which meant my body was too depleted to run.
Drinking was like adding tar to my fuel tank. I’d feel like I was running on fumes the next day when I needed to be a well-oiled machine to go the distance.
Initially, quitting drinking felt like a sacrifice. But the more I said no, the more my gears started to turn.
I am the engine. I am the fuel. I am the horsepower.
What started as a love letter to myself became a way of creating love from within.
No liquid courage — just literally courage
The other month, I sang “If I Ain’t Got You” by Alicia Keys at a karaoke bar. The doors were wide open for public embarrassment; everyone passing through the Industry City plaza could hear and see everything. It was just my friend and me. We were completely sober. And that’s exactly what made it fun — because it was daring to sing without alcohol. It was unfamiliar. It was uncomfortable. I’m used to a Korean karaoke room with soju, fried chicken, and the comfort of friends I already know. Other than my friend, I had strangers, a mocktail, and a mic.
When I sang that song, I thought back to the time I was eleven, and I had The Diary of Alicia Keys in my hand, thinking one day I’d be a singer because I was completely unaware that I lacked musical talent. My voice cracked from singing as high as I could, but I sang with my younger self in mind to show her that I recognize her regardless of how she sounds — flat and a little (or maybe very) tone deaf. And I love her for her good taste in R&B music; it still holds up.
I was present. I fully owned that moment. It was so bad, it was good.
My unapologetic boldness was all me — and it was infectious.
I didn’t care if I sounded pretty. Honestly, it was fugly. But it was me, and I couldn’t blame it on the al-al-al-al-a-alcohol.
A few weeks earlier, at another birthday party, I was one of the early people on the dance floor. I got low on the dance floor, like hands on the ground, and busted out the worm. People around me doubted I could do it. And I did it sober.
A few weeks later, I ran into a friend I’d met at that same birthday party. He came up to me with a huge smile, jumping up and down: “DUDE! I love your energy — it is SO good!”
Being seen for me — not who I am under the influence — was its own kind of high that no other substance could ever give me.
Cheers
I love being myself. That’s why I want to be consistent overall — not the version that’s blending in with the crowd. Not because alcohol is right in front of me. Not because it would make me or everyone else around me feel more comfortable. I want to run on me.
There’s nothing wrong with wanting a good time from being under the influence. Though I believe it’s helpful to ask yourself:
Are you trying to drown something out?
Are you escaping something?
Are you trying to bring out a version of yourself that you think would be more socially accepted?
You might be surprised by what comes out when you stop relying on alcohol to enjoy yourself.
Because you are the substance.