Once Upon a Wine Glass
Once upon a time, I thought I’d found my happily ever after in a wine glass. Every pour promised calm, escape, and a touch of sparkle I could never quite find on my own. What I didn’t know was that the so-called magic wore off so fast, sometimes the spell broke before I even finished my drink. One moment I was the heroine of my own story, the next I was wide awake at 3 a.m., heart racing, wondering why happily ever after always ended in regret. There never really was any magic in that potion at all. And this was no fairy tale.
Wine told me I was more fun, more lovable, more myself with a drink in my hand. It whispered that I deserved this break from reality, that numbing out was the same as resting. Like Sleeping Beauty under a curse, I slipped into a haze, eyes half-closed, heart half-present, convinced this was what happiness must look like. But behind the spell there was something uglier: the glass slipper was just another hangover, the enchanted forest was my living room couch, and Prince Charming looked a lot like cirrhosis.
The problem with believing alcohol’s fairy tales is that you can’t see the plot twist coming. You’re too busy clinging to the once upon a time to notice the story is slowly turning into a tragedy. For me, the ending was written in MRI results. But even as I stared at the word cirrhosis, I realized this didn’t have to be the last chapter. I could stop letting alcohol narrate my life. I could pick up the pen and write something new.
Lie #1: The Magic Potion of Calm
The first fairy tale wine told me was that it could quiet the dragons of my anxiety. And the spell worked! Well… for about 15 minutes. To keep the magic alive, I had to keep sipping the potion, more and more of it. The cruel twist was that the very thing I believed was curing my anxiety was secretly the cause of it.
I thought panic attacks were just part of who I was, written into my DNA. But once I got sober, I learned something shocking: I’m not an anxious person at all. I was just trapped in a never-ending cycle of withdrawal, waking up each day in the dungeon of the night before.
Lie #2: The Self-Care Spell
The next fairy tale was maybe the easiest one to believe: the story that alcohol was actualy self-care. Everywhere I looked - sitcoms, memes, glossy ads- it was sold as an essential ingredient in pampering. Wine with pedicures? Don’t mind if I do. Champagne on the flight? Yes, please. A “treat yourself” gin and tonic after a hard day? Obviously. The message was always the same: I deserve this.
And that’s the trick, isn’t it? The spell only works if you believe you’re rewarding yourself. But real self-care doesn’t leave you with crippling anxiety, headaches, and trying to piece together what you said last night. Alcohol isn’t self-care, it’s a poisoned apple dressed up in spa music and liquid therapy.
Lie #3: The Myth of Rock Bottom
For some, rock bottom looks messy: divorce, banishment from the kingdom, a lost job, or a DUI. Believing that I didn’t need to stop unless things got that bad was the most dangerous story of all. From the outside, I was doing just fine. Inside, my body was quietly waving a white flag of surrender. For me, cirrhosis was my “happily never after.”
And here’s the part that still stuns me: I’m not alone. Rates of alcohol-related liver disease are rising among women under 40, and women now have a 50% higher risk than men of developing cirrhosis (along with a higher risk of dying from it.) That’s not just my grim ending, it’s a cautionary tale being written across a whole generation of women sold “wine o’clock” as self-care.
The Real Ending
So no, I didn’t get my happily ever after from a wine glass. But here’s the good news: sobriety gave me something way better than magic. It gave me nights I actually remember, mornings without dragons, and the kind of calm no potion ever delivered.
And that, my friends, is the best fairy tale ending I could have asked for.