'I got blackout drunk at a girls' lunch. When I saw my daughter the next morning, everything changed.'

Maya Angelou once said, "When someone shows you who they are, believe them the first time." These words are often quoted to help us steer clear of unhealthy relationships, urging us to trust the warning signs. But as I reflect on my own journey, I realise this wisdom applies not just to people — but to alcohol.

For years, alcohol showed me exactly what it was: a deceptive friend that promised connection and fun, but too often delivered regret.

Growing up in Australia, where drinking feels like a national pastime, I learned early on that alcohol was woven into the fabric of our lives. From BBQs to birthdays, Friday knock-offs to long weekends, alcohol wasn't just a drink—it was a social glue. Like many Aussies, I started drinking young—regularly by 15. What began as a rite of passage quickly turned into a constant companion throughout my late teens and twenties.

My childhood memories are peppered with adults loosening up as the drinks flowed. The sound of clinking glasses signaled the start of the "real" fun. My parents would become funnier, more relaxed after a few wines, and the message was clear: alcohol made life lighter, brighter, more alive.

Yet behind that carefree exterior were moments of regret — mornings I longed to forget. The gaps in memory that should have made me question my habits. But like so many of us raised in this culture, I thought my relationship with alcohol was normal. We all drank like this. I never thought to stop.

In my twenties, my corporate job involved travel and attending big events and conferences. Drinking wasn't just OK; it was encouraged. I never saw declining a drink as an option. Drinking was part of the job, and admittedly, I didn't resist.

Motherhood offered me a brief reprieve. Four pregnancies and years of breastfeeding kept the worst of it at bay. But alcohol inevitably resurfaced; its gravitational pull was so strong. I leaned on it as a reward, a remedy, and a crutch—both in moments of celebration and sorrow. It lifted my spirits, dulled my anxiety, and filled the emptiness. Yet, like any unhealthy relationship, it came with strings attached: control masquerading as comfort.

Yet motherhood also brought new eyes—the eyes of my daughters, watching me. I didn't want them to see me drunk ever again. I had to stop the generational cycle of drinking. This realisation was visceral and came after a night I would rather forget, ironic, considering I barely recall any of it.

It wasn't until one night, after a long lunch with friends, that I finally saw alcohol for what it was. I ended up calling my husband for help but unable to tell him where I was. He left our four daughters at home to come and find me.

The next morning, my eldest daughter looked at me with fear in her eyes. I could tell she knew something wasn't right. It hit me like a tidal wave. I could no longer deny what alcohol had been showing me all along.

What would have been a funny story in my twenties turned into something entirely different. Instead of laughter, I felt a deep shame that hurt far more than my pounding head.

Watch: If alcohol was a person. Post continues after video.

Not long after that incident, my husband got a job in America, and we moved our family from Melbourne to San Diego. When our new neighbours invited us to a welcome dinner, I did what any good Aussie would do: I arrived with champagne and beer. But when I popped the cork, an awkward silence followed. There were no champagne flutes, only tumblers. While they insisted it was "fine," they politely declined to join in, sipping water instead. At the time, I brushed it off as boring—she wasn't a drinker; drinkers were my people. But that evening planted a seed, and a voice inside me began to get louder.

As we settled into life in the U.S., I noticed how different socialising without alcohol could be. Birthdays were celebrated with hikes and paddleboarding, not five-hour wine-soaked lunches. This made me reflect on my drinking, as a voice inside me—one that had been quietly questioning for years—grew louder. Was I really in control of alcohol, or was it controlling me?

Still, I wasn't ready to give it up completely. I tried moderation, setting strict rules for myself: alcohol-free weekdays, only drinking on weekends. But the more I tried to rein it in, the more I found myself overindulging on my "allowed" days, justifying each drink as a reward for my restraint. The mental gymnastics of moderation became exhausting. No matter how many boundaries I set, alcohol always found a way to cross them.

Image: Supplied.

I needed a circuit breaker. I signed up for Sober October and committed to a month without alcohol. I'd done it before and knew I could do it again. But this time, I didn't mark the end of the month with a celebratory bottle of champagne. Instead, I set a new challenge: three months, then six, then a year.

It's now been 13 months since I've had a drink. I needed to show my daughters that there was another way. I didn't want them to inherit the same complicated relationship with alcohol that I had. Without it, life became clearer. I found connection in ways that didn't revolve around a glass of wine or a cold beer.

Interestingly, Gen Z isn't falling into the same trap we did. Studies show that young people today drink significantly less than previous generations. Alcohol doesn't have the same pull on them. They're rejecting the belief we grew up with—that alcohol is essential for fun and connection. This shift gives me hope. My daughters are part of a generation that's redefining how we socialise, one that doesn't see alcohol as a necessity. I want to be part of that change, to model for them that life's highs and lows don't need to be cushioned by a drink.

Alcohol showed me who it was, and after three decades, I finally believed it. Now, I'm living proof that there's a better way to connect, to celebrate, and to be present—one that doesn't rely on alcohol. I hope my story helps others pause, reflect, and ask themselves what alcohol is showing them, and whether it's time to believe it.

The journey hasn't been easy, but it's been necessary—not just for me, but for my daughters, who I hope will grow up in a world where alcohol is no longer the default. If Gen Z can already see this shift, maybe I'm just catching up.

I miss it sometimes. The romance of a glass of wine after a long day still tugs at me, but the allure has faded.

Michaela Fox is a freelance writer living in San Diego. She shares insights on raising girls and her experiences as an expat on Instagram.

Feature Image: Supplied.