Sobriety Is the Latest Wellness Trend, and I Don’t Know How To Feel About It
I find it complicated to explain this moment in popular culture within my own life.
About two weeks ago, I went out with my cousin and his friend, and I got drunk. Not sloppily or uncontrollably so. I did what many of us aspire to do when the liquor starts flowing: I hit my sweet spot. I was in control of myself, but my inhibitions were appropriately lowered. I had an unsuccessful meet-cute with a guy at a bar. I remember everything that happened. I didn’t get sick. I wasn’t even dehydrated. Then, I came home and fell asleep after finishing my skincare and dental care routines. All in all, it was a good night, and I had fun.
When I woke up the following day, not at all hungover, I felt bad about drinking. I spent at least $125 on my portion of the evening. I tossed and turned all night. My face was puffy. I didn’t like how I felt, even though I didn’t feel anything more than the ramifications of a bad night’s sleep. It was my first time drinking since Election Night—an understandable occasion for a foray into a good glass of mezcal—because I’ve been toying with the idea of sobriety for all of 2024.
Musings about sobriety, in all its forms, are everywhere. A recent piece in Elle wonders if it’s among Gen Z’s defining characteristics. Another in British Vogue by writer Shon Faye lays out the benefits reaped from a year of celibacy—one where she learned how to manage the ways she was self-sabotaging through sex with emotionally unavailable men. Tons of women on TikTok are ascribing to the 4B movement or, at least, delaying romantic interactions due to our current shitty dating landscape, opting instead to focus wholly on themselves and their “glow up.” In my own life, several loved ones are abstaining from alcohol, sex, overspending, fried foods, or sugar, to name a few, as a way to clear their head and become more attuned to their bodies and minds.
It’s intriguing to see health approached en masse in this way. Substances like alcohol, cigarettes, and illicit drugs are terrible for the brain, the body, the gut, your sleep, your skin, and pretty much every aspect of your body, mind, and spirit. Those who exist in an online or offline health space understand that clearly, and the academic literature has never debated it. But seeing the desire for clarity spilling over into other areas of life, such as sex, dating, and food choices, is new to me.
For alcohol and other substances, at least, abstaining has a net positive effect on all aspects of life. Physically, your internal organs will function better, your sleep will improve, your risk for developing chronic diseases such as heart disease, cancer, and respiratory illnesses will decline, and your immune system will function better to ward off disease and infection. Your energy levels will jump, too. Mentally and emotionally, you’ll be clear-headed and less at risk for developing or worsening mental health disorders. You’ll save more money, too.
I’ve felt these benefits across the board, from lessening my alcohol consumption to giving up cigarettes almost a decade ago. Before I quit smoking, I was always winded, tired, and mentally fatigued. To make matters more concerning, I was hacking up a dark, cigarette ash–colored phlegm every morning. I maintain that putting the Marlboros down was the best thing I have ever done for my health—my mental acuity increased, I could actually get air into my lungs, and I stopped coughing up odd-colored bodily fluids in the morning. When I quit, I took a more traditional approach to sobriety, opting for complete abstinence from not just cigarettes but all forms of smoking. I regularly decline friendly vape pulls and invitations to do hookah, and I don’t partake in the tradition of having a cigarette outside the bar after a few drinks.
All of this pushed me to scale back on my own overconsumption habits—namely, spending too much money at Sephora, scrolling through TikTok far too frequently, and not dealing with the fact that I didn’t like how drinking felt anymore. For the former two poor habits, I went cold turkey. I stay out of Sephora unless I’ve run out of something, and I did a 30-day social media break, which successfully reset my relationship with the platform. Reducing my alcohol consumption has been a longer process. In 2018, I stopped drinking during periods of emotional overwhelm or depression. To up the ante, I stopped sipping at home and kept it strictly for social outings in 2023. Then, the following year, I lessened the number of drinks I had while out. Eventually, as 2024 grew cold, I was going out less and not drinking at all. I didn’t miss it.
Still, I find it complicated to explain this moment in popular culture within my own life—mainly because, once again, the mainstream is sifting through meaningful clinical language to describe a much less anguished desire for clarity. It’s estimated that more than 20 million people in the U.S. have a substance use disorder, and most don’t receive treatment. For Black and Latino folks, the barriers to getting treatment are higher, and if treatment is received, it’s often of lower quality. For those dealing with a substance abuse disorder—or, as one doctor defines it, “continued use [of a substance], despite negative consequences”—the mental, emotional, and physical stakes are higher than a desire to have better sleep and glowy skin.
With this rolling around in my mind alongside my prior experience with addiction, I’m not sure if my definition of sober as someone not currently suffering from a substance abuse disorder entails abstinence from alcohol.
Despite the overall blah emotions I have about what drinking does to me physically, I do enjoy the camaraderie it can foster—a toast at midnight on New Year's, the clank of glasses at a bar in celebration of a new job, engagement, or other life milestone, or the feel of a icy margarita as I sit poolside on a hot day. It prompts me to consider my version of “Cali sober,” where I drink during the moments in life when having one or two can boost the overall experience, no longer wasting it on mundane happy hours or the standard dinner with friends. On the other hand, I suppose I don’t need to have alcohol in my glass to enjoy those moments—and I should interrogate why I believe I do.
These are big questions that require working through. I know I won’t drink this month, and I’m unsure of when I’ll have another glass. But I’m sure I’ll figure out what works for me as I go along this leg of my wellness journey.