I could hear my baby crying, his tiny wails seeping under the bedroom door. I didn’t move. I stayed in bed, sheets pulled up to my chin, hiding from the world—and from myself. He needed me, but I couldn’t get up. I was too hungover. I barely remembered getting home the night before. The last thing I recall was holding two massive jugs of Sangria, the deep red liquid lapping over the sides, as I triumphantly shouted to my wasted friends, “It’s two for one!”
My life had always revolved around parties. I was a social drinker extraordinaire, never drinking alone, never leaving early, always chasing the next thrill. I didn’t see my drinking as a problem. I thought it was just normal—overdo it on Saturday, feel like death on Sunday. Wasted days were just part of life. I fit right in. You wouldn’t have pegged me as an alcoholic; I was fun, charismatic, the one everyone wanted at their table.
My addiction was clever, woven seamlessly into the social fabric around me. I had my first child at 34, and no one warned me how jarring the transition would be. I went from independent party girl to stay-at-home mom overnight. That tiny, crying bundle of love was my world, and I didn’t know how to cope. So I drank.
Mom’s group nights out became my lifeline—and my downfall. The monotony of motherhood, the long stretches of routine, only intensified my binge drinking when the rare opportunity to go out arrived. By the time a night out came, I was desperate to get annihilated. While I was meant to be tucking in, singing lullabies, and nurturing my child, I found myself dancing on speakers in dingy underground clubs, craving the chaos I’d left behind.
Weeks would pass where I appeared to be the perfect mom. I had the right snacks, soft cotton wraps, and a sturdy, sporty pram. I navigated germ-infested play pits and kept wipes ready for every leak or spill. On the surface, I was excelling at motherhood. But inside, I was mourning. I missed the carefree party girl—the one who linked arms with strangers and did terrible 80’s dance moves in crowded bars.
I wanted to feel like myself again. The drunk, untethered version of me—the only version I really knew—became my escape. And yet… the crying came again. I couldn’t feed him; my milk felt poisoned, ruined by my drinking. Sunlight sliced through the bedroom window, highlighting my shame. I closed the curtains and was suddenly hit by a flashback from my blackout: stumbling around the bathroom with my bra around my waist, vomiting, demanding my husband hand over the baby.
“Get in the bath,” he said. I sank into the empty tub as he put our son to bed. Then he rinsed me off like a zookeeper hosing down a muddy elephant. Lumps of vomit clogged the drain. The memory burned through me, guilt lacing every nerve. Panic took hold, dragging me further into my hangover.
My mind spiraled. Dark, frightening thoughts filled every corner. I imagined terrible ways I could fail or even die. This wasn’t supposed to be my life. I wanted to be the rockstar mom—partying till dawn, giving my kids mohawks, wearing ripped jeans. But motherhood had its own rules, and I was paying the price.
I heard the front door open and close—my family heading out without me. I felt too broken to join them. I stayed in my pit of self-hatred, hoping sleep might save me. But sleep didn’t come, only questions: Why do I keep doing this? Why can’t I stop? What’s wrong with me?
My anxiety worsened with every bender. Years of being the drunkest person at every pub, club, and wake had caught up with me. Panic attacks, low self-worth, depression—I was losing myself. I tried moderation. Water between drinks, eating before nights out, even Dry July. Nothing worked.
Then came the baby. That perfect little human, crying beyond my door, made me question everything—my drinking, my choices, my life. I had a responsibility now. Lying there, reeking of alcohol and surrounded by the aftermath of my last binge, I knew I had to change. I stood, donned my bathrobe, and entered the lounge. My son sat in his highchair, happily eating spaghetti.
I bent down, kissed his forehead, and whispered, “I’m sorry.” Then I turned to my husband and said ten simple words that changed my life: “I want to stop drinking. I think I need help.” He took my hand, promising support, telling me he hated seeing me like this, and that he loved me.
The next morning, I searched online for help and found a local counseling service. I called, nervous they’d dismiss me. “Hello, I’m Vicky. I’m a mom who hates binge drinking but can’t stop. Can you help me?” The voice on the other end didn’t laugh. “Yes, we can help.” I booked an appointment. That call marked the start of my sober journey.
Therapy helped me uncover why I drank, even when it wasn’t extreme. I realized I deserved help, and I was worthy of it. A few months later, after finishing therapy, I asked my husband, “What shall we do tomorrow?” It seemed simple, but it was revolutionary. For the first time in my adult life, I considered spending a Sunday fully present, not hungover.
That moment transformed me. I became an available parent instead of a drunken one. Today, two years sober, I’m happier, healthier, and free from anxiety. I savor weekends and celebrate with sparkling water instead of shots. I’m over the party girl. Now I’m just me—authentic, imperfect, perfect me.
I share my story for anyone stuck between the pub and a support group, wondering if help is worth it. Every problem, big or small, deserves attention. Reaching out—to a therapist, psychologist, or trusted friend—is the only way forward. Recovery is possible. Life is waiting.
