I thought I had Done the Work
As far as I can tell, My Guy is holding his own.
He’s communicating with me—and with some others that really surprised me. People he hasn’t reached out to in a long time.
When he told me, I said he must be feeling pretty good to take that step.
He said, “Life is too short to hold grudges.”
I’m glad I was sitting.
Of course, it’s impossible for me not to get hopeful. That’s my default setting. Anything that looks like hope lights me up.
But then there’s the fall.
I’ve lost track of how many times. The big ones feel like those nightmares where you’re falling, watching the ground rush up at you—and you wake up screaming.
But today is hopeful.
When this journey began, I didn’t even know the term AUD—Alcohol Use Disorder. I still thought in terms of “alcoholics.”
I believed I’d done the work. I thought I had made sure my kids understood the risks that come with a family history of addiction.
Looking back, I don’t think I ever really explained addiction. Not in a way that looks anything like what my child is living now. Maybe it would have helped. Maybe not.
Because alcohol doesn’t look like a problem.
That’s the difference.
It’s easy to warn kids about drugs that look dangerous. Needles scare people. Hard drugs come with images no one wants to become.
Alcohol doesn’t.
Alcohol is everywhere.
Expecting a teenager to be the one who says no—to the beer, the bottle, the moment—is a big ask. It always has been.
It was like smoking in the 80s. Everyone did it. The cool kids did it. And who doesn’t want to be cool?
I had my first cigarette at 10 or 11. I didn’t really pick up the habit until later—around 14. About the same time I started drinking.
Back then, smoking was everywhere. My father used to send me to the store to buy cigarettes when I was nine. And there was no issue. It was as normal as buying gum.
But we learned from tobacco.
Now you can’t buy cigarettes without being confronted by what they do to you. They’re hidden behind opaque doors. The packaging is deliberately unattractive. And when you do get them, the warnings are unavoidable—images, words, reminders that this choice comes with consequences.
It’s not subtle.
I smoked for 37 years before quitting—finally, for good—after chemo and radiation for breast cancer. Fifteen years smoke-free and cancer-free.
That didn’t happen by accident.
And then there’s alcohol.
If you pay attention, you might hear that it carries risk. You might see a Health Canada advisory. But mostly, what we get is this:
Know your limits.
Drink responsibly.
What does that actually mean to a 17-year-old?
To a 21-year-old?
If the primary messaging is about not driving, then the takeaway becomes: as long as you’re not behind the wheel, you’re fine.
But that’s not the whole story. Not even close.
There are much scarier things behind the pretty bottles and the candy-flavoured drinks—and we don’t talk about them nearly enough.
Meanwhile, the social pressure is real.
Two of my other children—adults—have told me how hard it is to say no when they’re out. If you decline a drink, pace yourself, or just opt out altogether, you don’t blend in. You stand out.
You’re questioned. Teased. Pushed.
There’s an expectation, not just acceptance.
Even trying to quietly not drink can backfire. Order a Coke or a Sprite and it shows up in a big, obvious glass, marking you as different. And different isn’t always welcome in those spaces.
We’ve had strategy sessions—ways to say no, ways to deflect, ways to avoid the conversation entirely.
That’s where we are.
Not just a culture that accepts drinking, but one that expects it—and pushes back when you choose differently.
My Guy has struggled with the idea of never drinking again.
Not just the loss of alcohol, but the weight of saying, “No thanks, I’m sober.”
That’s not a small thing.
And yet, we continue to place the responsibility almost entirely on the individual.
If things go wrong, it’s about poor choices. Lack of control. Personal failure.
We’ve seen this before.
We changed how we talk about domestic violence.
We changed how we approach drinking and driving.
We changed how we regulate tobacco.
So why not alcohol?
Why are we still so reluctant to clearly state the risks?
Why do terms like “functional alcoholic” still sound acceptable—even harmless—to so many young people?
Alcohol is a drug.
It carries real, significant risk.
And yet, it’s marketed, normalized, and made available in ways that suggest otherwise.
We tell people to be responsible—without giving them a full understanding of what they’re up against.
Today is hopeful.
But hope, on its own, isn’t a plan—and it shouldn’t have to carry this much weight.
We can do better than this.
We’ve done better before.
And until we start treating alcohol with the same clarity, honesty, and public health focus we’ve applied to other risks, families like mine will keep learning these lessons the hardest possible way.
I’d rather we didn’t have to.