I was sixteen when I first learned to pretend, and alcohol was my teacher. It was 2002, my senior year of high school, and I was the youngest in my friend group—more of a burden than a badge of honor. I’d started kindergarten early, skipped part of first grade, and spent my adolescence trying to keep up with friends and classmates who were always a year or two older.

That night was no different. I was at a friend’s lake house in Conroe, Texas, for a sleepover. I hadn’t told my parents everything—that it was co-ed, that her parents weren’t home, and that there would be drinking. I took my first sip surrounded by laughter and the kind of reckless confidence you find among sheltered, privileged teens in the Texas suburbs—kids who didn’t really understand the risks or where that first drink might lead.

My first thought was: I don’t like this. It was bitter. It stung my tongue and burned my throat. I winced. But when I looked around, everyone else was smiling, their faces bright, pretending to be their happiest selves—or already acting drunk after just one sip. No one mentioned the taste, and I didn’t dare say anything. So I smiled too, copying their joy, and swallowed it. I don’t like bitter things, but I went along with it. I pretended. My first hangover left me wrecked for days—head pounding, stomach churning.

The next week, in AP English, we started reading Greek tragedies. I found myself drawn to Aristophanes’ The Frogs. As Dionysus journeyed into the underworld, I felt like part of the chorus—hovering in the background, hesitant, unwilling to speak the truth.

I didn’t drink again until my early twenties, when it started to have real, often positive, social benefits. There were brunches, happy hours, work dinners, celebrations. A glass here, a bottle there, a shot now and then. G.M. Shepherd’s 2012 book Neurogastronomy explains how the brain processes taste and how repeated exposure can make us like something we once disliked, especially under social and cultural influence.

My friends joked that I “babysat” my cocktails—taking tiny sips of fruity or creamy drinks during our meetups around the city. The truth is, then and now, I’ve never liked the taste of alcohol. As someone born in Liberia and raised in Texas, my tastes lean toward the hyper-feminine: I like beautiful, symmetrical, soft, sweet things. Yet all my serious relationships in my twenties, including with the man I’d eventually marry, were with people who enjoyed talking about aged scotch and luxury tequila farms in places like Sag Harbor and Milan. Back then, what you drank said something about how well you traveled, where you lived, and sometimes how long a conversation might last.

So I played along. I learned to enjoy Opus One. I learned which vintages and blends I preferred. I often wonder now how many others in those rooms were like me—enduring the bitterness for a taste of freedom from awkwardness and anxiety. For peace of mind. For the power to forget.

By 2024, I’d had three children in three years: a girl in early 2021, a boy in 2022, and another boy exactly a year later—a surprise pregnancy I discovered at fifteen weeks. After spending my twenties traveling, writing, and soaking up everything Brooklyn had to offer, older family members—Liberian traditionalists, baby boomers in long marriages—told me it was time to settle down. So I did. I had the children. And as I began to fall behind in my literary career (I was nearly four years past my deadline…With my second novel’s deadline pushed back by the arrival of my third baby, I felt guilty for not feeling pure joy—especially since my first pregnancy, back in 2019, had ended in loss. So whenever people asked about the kids, my husband, our Upper West Side duplex, or the life I’d worked so hard to build, I’d take a sip of wine and tell them everything was wonderful. I’d smile, even as I admitted to sleepless nights and mental exhaustion. Yes, there was joy—but it was tangled up with other feelings no one had warned me about. I was anxious. I was scared. I missed the person I used to be.

Motherhood, like social drinking, came with its own unspoken rules. It felt like pushing through the hard parts to reach some golden future—successful kids, educated and married, contributing to the world, hopeful and grateful, maybe even giving me grandchildren one day. I was expected to smile through the fatigue, to hide my anxiety while my body and mind were still healing.

Thankfully, it all came to a breaking point.

My husband rented a summer house in Southampton for our family, and we had friends staying with us for the weekend. That first night, dinner started with lighthearted conversation but soon turned tense. Strangers used glasses of expensive wine to fuel political arguments and mask their discomfort. I drank more than I ever had before. The next morning, a new friend pulled me aside for a walk.

She told me I’d said things about members of my family—things I couldn’t even imagine thinking, let alone saying—and she wanted to check on me. She hadn’t heard me herself; another guest, someone I barely knew, had told her. I had no defense, no memory, no control. I felt completely helpless. What had happened? Was it the alcohol? Postpartum hormones? Or just the weight of everything? I spiraled. Can you imagine? Later that day, I cried as I played with the kids upstairs. All that, and I didn’t even like the taste of alcohol. I haven’t had a drink since.

A year of sobriety gave me clarity on all the little ways I’d been pretending, and where it all started. First, I was honest about my writing. No one was going to save me. If I wanted to finish my novel, I had to push myself—not by focusing on the finished book, but by starting with the first word. If I wanted to feel like myself again, I needed therapy and guidance to understand this new role—mother—that seemed to overshadow everything else. If I wanted to feel safe, I had to be more careful about who I let into my life, but I also had to look honestly at myself. How had I been silencing my own voice over the years? How often had I laughed when I wanted to cry or scream? Those early lessons in holding back—to fit in, to avoid conflict, to keep things smooth—had long-lasting effects.

Until recently, we rarely heard about how difficult pregnancy can be, how long recovery takes, or the deep emotional adjustment motherhood demands. There is so much joy, but some days are incredibly—and sometimes unreasonably—hard.

I want to teach my children that no approval from others—not from the rooms they occupy, the tables they sit at, the circles they move in, the jobs they hold, the marriages they build, or the friendships they form—will ever be more powerful than learning to affirm themselves, truly and completely. I want them to know that happiness and sadness can exist together, that both are valid and connected. Pretending taught me how to survive, but it also showed me what I no longer want to carry. I want my children to see that life’s beauty lies in raw, unfiltered moments—living fully, without fear of uncomfortable truths. Living fully, and making it sweet.

Frequently Asked Questions
Of course Here is a list of FAQs about how motherhood transforms ones selfperception and relationship with alcohol with clear and concise answers

General Beginner Questions

1 How does becoming a mother change how you see yourself
Becoming a mother often shifts your identity from an individual to a caregiver Your priorities values and how you spend your time fundamentally change which can lead to a rediscovery of who you are

2 Why does motherhood often make people reevaluate their drinking
The responsibility of caring for a child means you need to be alert and present 247 Many mothers find that drinking conflicts with this need making them question its role in their lives

3 Is it common to drink less after having a baby
Yes its very common The demands of parenting like nighttime feedings and early mornings naturally make alcohol less appealing or practical for many

4 What does Mommy Wine Culture mean
Its a popular trend that normalizes and even jokes about mothers needing wine to cope with the stress of parenting It often presents alcohol as a necessary reward or relief

Deeper Advanced Questions

5 Can motherhood lead to an unhealthy reliance on alcohol
Unfortunately yes The immense pressure and isolation of new motherhood combined with wine mom messaging can sometimes lead to using alcohol as a primary coping mechanism which can be risky

6 How can changing my drinking habits improve my experience of motherhood
Drinking less can lead to more patience better sleep more energy and being fully mentally and emotionally present for your children It allows you to experience the raw unfiltered moments of parenting

7 I feel guilty for not enjoying every moment Will drinking help
It might provide a temporary escape but it doesnt address the root feelings True coping often comes from finding support managing expectations and practicing selfcare without alcohol

8 What are some signs that my drinking might be a problem
Signs include planning your day around drinking needing alcohol to relax or have fun feeling guilty about how much you drink or being unable to stop after one glass

Practical Tips Support

9 What are some alcoholfree ways to unwind after a long day with kids
Great alternatives include a cup of herbal tea a walk outside a few minutes