Having My First Drink at 25
Why I decided to drink after years of saying no
When I was 16, I proudly declared (in the overdramatic fashion of a younger me) that I would never, ever drink alcohol. I told anyone who would listen. My parents, who believed me too young to make such a bold claim, laughed at the idea with the polite condescension of someone watching a toddler drive a toy car. But this dismissal only fuelled my determination, as if now I had a reason to prove myself. I held onto this choice so tightly that soon it had grown into part of what I thought defined Me.
In the years since, I’ve been asked “Why not?” by almost everyone with more than three seconds of interest to spare and just the right amount of wine in their stomachs to make them brave enough. Some have audibly gasped when I told them I don’t drink. Some offered their congratulations, informing me that I was “doing the right thing”, as if sobriety were intrinsic to whatever made a person ‘good’. One man fervently insisted I was right not to bother with alcohol and recommended that I try LSD instead. Regardless of who they were, absolutely everyone had an opinion on the matter, and I was going to hear it whether I wanted it or not.
“But seriously, why don’t you drink?”
Like someone lost in their own web of lies, I cycled through a series of answers to suit the occasion: the cost, the hangovers, the anticipatory anxiety of being drunk and without control. All excuses I told myself and others, and all with a certain portion of truth in them. When I was feeling adventurous, I said I was allergic. That lie I saved for those well-meaning strangers who not-so-subtly spiked my Dr Pepper with jäger because I apparently needed to ‘loosen up’ — which yes, did happen. Several times.
But there’s one truth that’s stuck around the longest: the reason I don’t drink is that I never have.
I had built up a streak, one that I was committed never to break. A stupid reason, I’ll admit, but it’s one that I’ve unconsciously wrapped up in years of guilt, anxiety and social pressure. Pressure to uphold the picture I’d been painting of myself since I was 16 years old.
But that picture has recently started to show its age.
University
As someone who rarely went to parties, it took going to university for me to realise how abnormal my decision truly was. In a culture that’s as alcohol-centric as Britain’s (that sounds judgemental coming from me, doesn’t it?), being the only one who’s never had a drink makes you stand out like the kid at school who forgot about own-clothes day. If everyone at uni had walked around with shiny labels that identified their most recognisable traits, mine would have read AMERICAN, DOESN’T DRINK, MAYBE RELIGIOUS? in aggressive all caps.
Don’t get me wrong. For much of my time at uni, I was happy for the added attention. At parties I was the token Other. People often introduced me as ‘Aaron Oh And By The Way He Doesn’t Drink’, and immediately there was something that set me apart from the rabble of 20-somethings. But why did I care? Without alcohol to quieten my nerves, I was never the one who danced on the coffee table or who left the club at an hour when others were heading to work. With more inhibitions than I could count, my experience of the uni social life was a meagre slice of the pie. And so I relished the opportunity to have something unique about me. I’d been put in a box and, for a time, it was working for me.
I was so obsessed with this facet of my personality that I couldn’t see the damage it was causing. I was too blind to notice how this arbitrary choice I’d made as a teenager had become so fundamental to my sense of identity that the idea of giving up — of giving in — felt like betraying who I was. I knew all the things that made up Me. And yet, with a constant supply of encouragement, that hastily-made image of ‘Aaron the teetotaller’ kept fighting for centre stage. And it kept winning. It never seemed to matter that I was feeling more and more like an outsider.
I started having anxiety dreams where I’d find myself at a bar as a blurry-faced friend passed me a drink. The night quickly fast-forwarded and I was suddenly ten drinks in and questioning how I could have let this happen, how I could have given up so easily. And of how disappointed my friends would be.
There was a running joke that if my housemates hosted a party and told everyone I was having my first drink, it would be our most-attended event. I pictured the scene: everyone gathering around me with a mixture of amazement and mild apprehension as I poured a glass, as if I were a zoo animal learning to use tools. Suddenly, that same attention I’d once relished had shown an uglier side: I realised that if I publicly changed my mind about this, everyone would be looking. I would be on show.
I felt trapped, having unknowingly wrapped my self-worth around a decision I made nine years ago. I knew I was missing out on a large part of uni life, but any consideration to drink left me with a feeling of dread. I was terrified of being seen as behind everyone else — of having to play catch-up. And so I continually shut down any attempts to change.
But I was slowly climbing my way out, one internal pep-talk at a time.
And then 2020 happened
It took a nationwide lockdown for me to fully contemplate what I had missed out on. I’m not exactly sure why. Perhaps it was that everything felt quieter, as the world took a collective deep breath and waited to start up again. Likely it was the combination of abundant free time and celebrating my 25th birthday that together sparked a long-overdue thought.
Maybe now is a good time, one quarter decade in.
After years of trying, I finally gave myself permission, as if that’s all that was needed. Permission to take two steps back and get a fresh perspective on what I truly wanted. And maybe — just maybe — that meant giving up this persona I’d held closely for so long. Because it was beginning to weigh me down.
I don’t know when that time will be, whether in a month or a year. But whenever I decide to have my first drink, it will come with the reasoning that it could also be my last. I won’t be betraying who I am or committing to a lifetime along a different path. For now, it’ll only be a detour. And if it turns out the grass is truly greener, maybe I’ll stay for the journey.
