“We drink because it’s been a long day, a long week, a tough year, and we drink, in the end, because drinking is what we do.” *Madame Gautreau Drinking a Toast,* by John Singer Sargent.

Half Empty

As my father died of alcoholism, I awakened to a sobering truth about myself

By Hannah Betts

Sober birthdays are weird. September 15, 2024, was the ten-year anniversary of my giving up booze. Hello, the woman who has a home, a dog and a partner, who leaves the house in daylight, boasts a sofa she has actually sat on and flat shoes in which she can stride. Farewell, the lone, forever renting party girl who worked by day and caroused by night, the last at any bash and the first to parkour up a wall in heels.

Part of you wants to mark the occasion with a drink because this is what we do in our alcophiliac society. We celebrate with a drink and we commiserate with a drink. We drink because we’re excited, we drink because we’re bored, we drink to buoy ourselves up and we drink to uncoil. We drink to sleep and to shag, to feel and not to feel. We drink because it’s been a long day, a long week, a tough year, and we drink, in the end, because drinking is what we do.