I used to love alcohol. I loved the subtle, comforting warmth that sets in with whiskey. Feeling the day’s aches and pains dissolve. It felt good.

As a shy teenager, I found acceptance and validation in my Friday-night beer-fueled exploits. Before long, nearly every Friday night was spent this way. That pattern carried over into adulthood. I had a good time.

In my middle years, as a young at heart business owner, beer no longer satisfied me—no quantity seemed to suffice. So I switched to whiskey. I clearly remember that first whiskey, sitting on the veranda of an upscale restaurant on the island of Majorca. The deep, soothing glow that came from just two whiskeys, compared to having to drink a crate of bloating beers, it was a revelation.

Friday-night drinking soon spread to Mondays and Wednesdays, spaced strategically for recovery between sessions. Often, I would begin working in the late afternoon or early evening with a whiskey in hand, continuing to work, drink, and listen to music until the early morning hours.

Eventually, something changed. The warm, fuzzy sensation disappeared, regardless of how much I drank. The joy had gone out of drinking. I considered daily drinking—topping up each night—but that seemed like a point of no return, and the thought alone gave me pause. I was also taking my commitment to sports and surfing more seriously, and drinking was beginning to hold me back.

So, I cut back—or rather, I tried to. It would be easy to stop altogether, I thought, but why should I? I wasn’t an alcoholic. I allowed myself whiskey only once a week on Friday evenings. But I made exceptions; sometimes I allowed myself a session on a Monday or a Wednesday night, too. Of course, that didn’t work. I then tried whiskey only once a month. And of course, that didn’t work either. Too many “exceptions” crept in.

I then stopped drinking altogether for 2-3 months at a time. And then I would allow myself a Friday night binge, because, hey, once in a while isn’t that bad now, is it? I repeated the process of stopping and starting again every few months. In truth, the health benefits of abstaining for 2-3 months did not feel dramatic enough to motivate me to quit for good.

But I had started the process. I wanted to change, and I kept trying. I never gave up. Eventually, I succeeded. When I finally stopped for good—after repeating the cycle multiple times—it took about nine to twelve months to truly experience the physical and psychological benefits. While my life isn’t perfect now, I know for certain that my lack of energy and bouts of depression were greatly influenced by alcohol.

I don’t wish I had taken a different path—it doesn’t help and isn’t realistic. My childhood needed to be processed, and alcohol was one of the primary mechanisms I used to cope with it.

Reducing my alcohol intake to once or twice a year (rather than quitting outright, if only to reassure myself that I am not truly an alcoholic) remains one of the best decisions I have ever made.

Stopping alcohol, like achieving most things in life, requires a genuine desire to change. It helps to have motivating factors—friends, family, and personal life goals—and it takes time and patience. But if you truly want to succeed, you keep trying. You try as many times as it takes. Be gentle with yourself during this process, just as you would be with others.

Plant that seed of change now—and good luck!

Yours,

John Honey