TEXARKANA MAGAZINE
I considered that maybe, possibly, I might have a drinking problem. I slowly stopped drinking completely after that chaotic year. I didn’t make a grand announcement. I didn’t join a movement. I just stopped because my body began to grow exhausted. It wasn’t fun anymore. I picked it back up sometime in 2022. And over the next few years, with a lot of therapy and a lot of uncomfortable honesty, I came to find that the problem wasn’t actually the alcohol. I was sorely lacking in the self-discipline department. I had no impulse control. It was my little ADHD brain that loves instant gratification and struggles when life demands long-term consistency. It was me reaching for something that quieted the noise when I didn’t yet have the tools to do that myself. It took me years to stop beating myself up and to realize that until now, I have done the absolute best I knew how to do with the only tools I had. I wasn’t broken. I wasn’t weak. I wasn’t failing some invisible morality test. I was coping in the only way I knew how. Which brings me to Dry January 2026, or as my friend Maddie and I like to call it, the month our frontal lobes developed. This decision didn’t stem from shame. Nothing horrible happened. It simply stemmed from the conversation I have been having over and over with my closest friends about self-discipline. It’s about knowing when to say “no” and realizing that growing up in your twenties is confusing and overwhelming and loud. Everyone has an opinion about who you should be and how fast you should get there. It is honestly enough to drive someone to drink. And the older I get, the more I understand how easily people end up alcoholics, not because they are bad, but because numbing is way easier than feeling and healing. Drinking is fun. It is social. It is bonding. It is laughter and late nights and memories. I didn’t do Dry January because drinking is miserable. I did it because I did not realize I had signed up for the consequences that came with that fun: the depression, the brain fog, the exhaustion, and how even two days after I was done drinking I still couldn’t bring my best self to work on Monday morning. I did it because after drinking, my body felt like something I was dragging behind me instead of living inside. At some point, the cons outweighed the pros. What I have learned through healing is that I do not need alcohol to feel normal. I do not need food, or attention, or validation to feel whole. What I need to do is deal with my trauma instead of drowning it. Once you peel back those layers, something shifts. You stop wanting to poison your body every weekend because you actually care about it. You stop seeing your body as something you are trapped in and start seeing it as something you want to love and nurture and care for. If my body is a temple, like the Bible says, why would I want to flood it with things that actively harm it? Dry January wasn’t a punishment. For me, it was just a pause. A conscious decision to find more clarity and achieve greater peace of mind. It helped me practice saying “no” even when “yes” would be easier. And as boring as it may sound at first, I am beginning to think this may be what growing up actually looks like: learning when the fun stops serving you and having the courage to walk away. If you see yourself in any of this, you are not alone, and you are not behind. You are just learning, like the rest of us… one cylinder at a time.
GOOD EVENING TXK COLUMN BY BAILEY GRAVITT
In 2020, my mom told me I was “firing on all cylinders.” However, I was drunk at lunchtime. That was my introduction to imposter syndrome. My mom was so incredibly proud of me for landing my first big-boy job, and it was my first month writing for this magazine. But, for a long time before that, I had been spinning out. Directionless. Aimless. I am sure there was a part of her that had quietly wondered if I was ever going to pull it together, or at the very least had mentally prepared herself in case I didn’t. So, when it finally appeared that I had gotten my life on track, it spilled out of her in one big, “Wow, babe. You are just firing on all cylinders!” What she didn’t know was that my morning had started with vodka shots in my bedroom closet at 6 a.m. Back then, I knew that was weird. But I also knew it felt good. I was young. I was creative. I was a little stressed. I had a real job now, with a real schedule, real deadlines, real expectations, and a growing anxiety that if I ever slowed down long enough to actually feel anything, it would all slip through my fingers. So yeah, I drank a little. And if you have read my columns for any length of time, you already know I have the most incredible support system on planet Earth. It wasn’t until late 2020 that one of my closest friends told me she was worried—enough that she offered to sit beside me during my very first therapy appointment. That was the first time
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