Why I Don’t Drink Alcohol

"No, thank you," is enough. I learned young that alcohol isn’t always harmless. In my world, it has been a force that tears people down and splits families apart. My decision not to drink isn’t about being “above” anyone—it’s about protecting myself based on what I’ve lived through and who I know I am.

I was around ten or eleven the night I woke up to the sound of drawers sliding open, one after another. My dad was standing over my dresser, rummaging through my things like he was searching for buried treasure. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I said, “Hi Dad.” He didn’t even look up. “Hey Brit, Dad just needs to borrow a couple bucks from you,” he told me, still digging. “Okay,” I whispered before letting my head fall back onto my pillow. But sleep didn’t come back as easily as it used to. I stared at the ceiling, wondering why my dad needed money from his kid. Why didn’t he have a couple bucks of his own? And somewhere in my young mind, I already knew the truth: he wanted money for something he wasn’t supposed to have. Maybe beer. Maybe chew. Or maybe something worse.

That was the beginning of understanding how drugs and alcohol could twist a family into knots.

Not long after, I remember standing in the front yard under a dark sky, eyes squeezed shut, wishing my parents would get divorced. Kids are supposed to want their parents to stay together, right? But all I wanted was for the fighting to stop. For my mom to smile again. For peace. When people talk about “staying together for the kids,” I think about that night—how badly I wanted the opposite. I wonder if their kids think the same thing. About a year later, my wish came true.

Those memories hardened my perspective on alcohol early on, but like most teenagers, I ran straight toward the very thing that scared me. I had my own reckless phase—blackout nights, bad decisions, and embarrassment I didn’t even fully remember. Then one morning when I was eighteen, I woke up naked in a house I didn’t recognize, with no idea how I’d gotten there. It was a horrifying wake-up call. And it was the last time I drank for many, many years.

I told myself I wasn’t going to follow the patterns I had witnessed. I made the choice—a young but powerful one—that alcohol wasn’t for me. The decision felt final.

But a couple years ago, something shifted. I was happy. I had a healthy marriage, stability. So I started having a casual drink here and there, enjoying a margarita on a date night with my husband, toasting a celebration with a glass in my hand. It felt new—something I thought I had grown into. Something I could handle now.

But very quickly, my body reminded me why I don’t drink.

One single margarita and my sleep was wrecked. As a sleep connoisseur and an athlete, this drove me crazy. It’s one thing to toss and turn at night and not know why, but when you know it’s fully self-inflicted? It felt dumb. My resting heart rate increased. My HRV dropped. My mood declined. My recovery tanked—all from one drink.

And then the cravings hit. Once I want something, I want it fully. If alcohol could hook my brain that fast, I didn’t want to see what came next.

So I made the decision again—with more clarity and confidence than ever before: alcohol is not for me.

My choice comes down to a few solid truths:

1. I refuse to repeat the patterns I’ve seen in my family. I won’t let addiction continue its story through me.

2. I have an addictive personality. I don’t do anything halfway, and I don’t want to direct that kind of intensity toward alcohol. I’d rather channel it into my business, my running, caring for my home, and the people I love.

3. Alcohol doesn’t support my goals. I want better for myself mentally, physically, and emotionally.

4. I want to be the best parent and partner I can be. I want my kids to feel safe. I want to model stability, not chaos.

I know that not drinking comes with its own challenges—especially socially. Some people hear “I don’t drink” and immediately get uncomfortable, like my choice threatens something in them. The pressure can show up casually: “Come on, just one!” “Live a little!” But here’s the truth: I don’t owe anyone an explanation for a boundary that protects me.

If someone pushes, I’ll be honest: “Alcoholism runs in my family and I’m breaking that cycle. So no, I don’t drink.” If that makes them uncomfortable, they might want to sit with why.

As an adult, a parent, and a goal-driven woman, I protect my peace more fiercely than ever. Saying no to alcohol isn’t about limitation—it’s about liberation. It’s about refusing to gamble with my genetics. It’s about honoring the body and mind I work so hard to care for. It’s about rewriting a family story that has already written enough chapters in pain.

I don’t drink because I know myself. I don’t drink because I know my past. I don’t drink because I’m building a future that deserves better than what alcohol ever offered me.

This is my boundary. My clarity. My freedom. My choice.

And if you ever find yourself in a moment where someone expects you to explain yourself—remember this: “No thank you” is a full sentence.