How Sobriety Became My Dating Superpower
By Sarah Levy
For most of my adult life, my New Year's resolution was always the same—to put myself out there and find true love. But as a twenty-something living in New York City, I never had much success with dating. There were hookup buddies and short-lived flings with men I swiped “yes” on and met for drinks after work. But that elusive spark always seemed to be missing.
For example, Gabriel, a venture capitalist I met at a dinner party, who was handsome, charming, and well-traveled: the type of partner I envisioned for myself. I bought a new dress before our first date and smoothed it out nervously on the subway ride to the restaurant.
Over dinner, Gabriel selected an expensive bottle of wine, which we finished quickly. He asked polite questions and shared delightful anecdotes about his time living abroad. Afterwards, we switched to cocktails, then went back to his Gramercy Park apartment for a nightcap.
He spoke extensively of his mother, the most elegant woman he knew, as he wiped his nose for the tenth time that night. “You have to promise me one thing,” he said seriously as he reached for my cheek, the city lights twinkling through the massive windows behind him. “Promise that you won’t fall in love with me.”
In a taxi the next morning, I stared down at my crinkled dress quizzically. In the early light of day, the fabric looked cheap. The night was a blur—all that wine—and I couldn’t quite remember how it had ended. Our date had started out with so much potential, but now, as my hangover began to set in, I knew I would never see him again.
There were other failed connections, like the copywriter who borrowed my favorite book and then ghosted me, and the teacher who slurred about attending summer camp in Maine and missing his ex. I often got the sense that I was an outsider looking in on myself as I went on these dates; I was going through the motions, and it all seemed shallow.
Like my romantic pursuits, my relationship with alcohol was also fizzling out. I had considered cutting back on my drinking before, but I held an outdated idea of what having a “real” alcohol problem meant. I was young, educated, and employed, so I didn’t think I fit the bill. Still, once I had a couple of cocktails in me, I often struggled to stop drinking and blacked out. I was unsatisfied with my life and stuck in a cycle of happy hours, hangovers, and shame. I also had a growing suspicion that my drinking was preventing me from forming the kinds of authentic connections I craved.
I decided to give sobriety a shot following my 28th birthday. Within a few weeks, I felt less anxious, but the idea of dating without alcohol was unnerving. I had been meeting men over drinks for most of my twenties, and I worried about how our conversations would flow without wine.
I had considered cutting back on my drinking before, but I held an outdated idea of what having a “real” alcohol problem meant.
In twelve-step programs, newcomers are typically advised to wait a year before beginning to date again. I tried to take this suggestion, but barely made it a month. My friends were all getting engaged or married and I worried about being left behind and wasting my best years on my couch. “My skin will never be this good again,” I thought as I sat at home, sober, and single.
Dating had begun to feel like walking down the aisles of a grocery store on the night before a big storm; the supply of eligible men seemed to be dwindling like shelf-stable goods in the hours before a blizzard. I worried that, if I waited too long to get back out there, all the good ones would be taken.
On an early sober date, over coffee with a startup founder named Oren, I sipped my latte nervously. Without alcohol, I was painfully aware of the lengthy silences, as well as the fact that he didn’t ask me a single question. I called my friend as soon as I left the cafe.
“That was a failure,” I said, discouraged. “He clearly wasn’t interested in me.”
“Well,” my friend paused as a cab roared past me, heavy on its horn. “Did you like him?”
The question stopped me in my tracks. When I was drinking, I prided myself on my ability to befriend anyone. I identified as a chameleon: skilled at observing others and matching the qualities they exhibited. I would change my clothes, mannerisms, and interests if it meant being liked. But I never stopped to ask myself whether or not I liked them, too.
When alcoholics get sober, they often revert emotionally to the age they were when they started drinking. When I got sober, I returned to my teenage self. I was insecure and had a bit of growing up to do—in romance and in life.
I decided to take that break from dating after all. I deleted my apps, scheduled plans with friends, went to the movies, and read books. I filled my fridge with more than just hummus and baby carrots and made myself breakfast in the mornings instead of my usual coffee and half an energy bar. The more time I spent with myself, the more comfortable I became in my own skin.
With every day that I stayed sober, I showed myself the kind of love I had spent years seeking from others.
My dating hiatus only lasted a few months, but it was the longest I had gone without thinking about men since middle school. I made my return to dating with Ben, a runner who lived in Brooklyn. We went out three times and while I did enjoy his company, I quickly realized my feelings were mostly platonic. The next time he texted, I was upfront with him. It was the first time I had been direct with a date; before, it was either ghost or be ghosted.
Next, I met Josh, a yogi with curly brown hair. He was smart, funny, and took a while to text me back, which piqued my interest. I decided I really liked him, which made it all the more crushing when he let me know he wasn’t looking for anything serious after our fifth date. It was the type of crushing rejection I would have previously gotten drunk over.
Instead, I called my friend Jillian in tears. “That’s the thing about dating,” she said. “It either ends or it lasts forever. Did you think he was forever?” I wasn’t sure. But I was proud that I had shown up authentically enough to like someone, even though it had ended.
Sobriety, it turned out, was becoming my dating superpower. The longer I went without drinking, the clearer my thinking became. I was able to discern my feelings about the people around me, and felt more confident following my gut instinct. I was also getting to know myself better, which made it easier to sincerely relate to people.
When I explained that I didn’t drink, I also gained important data points about how the other person processed vulnerable information. When dates questioned or tried to talk me into having just one drink, it made it easier to identify a lack of compatibility. When I was drinking, I was desperate to be compatible with any man I deemed attractive or impressive; I just wanted someone to choose me. But now, I was choosing me: with every day that I stayed sober, I showed myself the kind of love I had spent years seeking from others.
About a year after diving back into dating, I met my husband, Adam. I had worked to develop the awareness and self-esteem required to be truly vulnerable with another human, and I showed up for our first dates with the kind of confidence I used to fake. Adam brought the same level of authenticity; he was immediately supportive of my sobriety and we spent our first two dates talking nonstop, sharing stories like old friends.
On our third date, I told Adam about my quest to spend less time worrying about being liked and fitting in with others.
“I know what you mean,” Adam said. “Growing up, I got good at being what other people wanted me to be. Sometimes I felt a little bit like…” he trailed off, searching for the word.
“A chameleon?” I asked. He was still for a few moments before he began to nod. We understood each other. As he smiled at me I felt it: the spark.
The next day, a friend and I went to get manicures and she asked about my date. “I know this sounds crazy,” I said calmly as I examined my cuticles. “But I think I’m going to marry him.”
I knew what I had found—a sweet chameleon who, like me, had stepped into his truest skin—because I had found myself, too.
A few weeks later, on a blustery winter night, I was walking through Midtown Manhattan at rush hour when the crowds parted to reveal Gabriel. His eyes met mine for a moment before he looked away, and the shame from our drunken date hit me all over again.
Did he even remember me? I briefly wondered as a sea of commuters separated us. Now that I was sober, memories of that night came racing back to me, and my cheeks burned. I remembered the way he said nothing when I left the next morning, the nauseating cab ride home.
As I continued to walk through the city, I also remembered all my old New Year’s resolutions: the connections I searched for in all the wrong places, at the bottom of every wine glass. I decided it didn’t matter if Gabriel remembered me or what he thought of our date. I remembered enough for both of us. And now that I was me, really me, I realized something: I hadn’t liked him that much anyway.
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Sarah Levy is a writer based in Los Angeles by way of New York. Her work examines the intersection of sobriety, relationships, and identity and has been featured in The New York Times, New York Magazine/The Cut, Cosmopolitan, Glamour, Vogue, Elle, and other publications. She holds a B.A. in Literary Arts from Brown University and pursued a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing from The New School. Drinking Games is her first book.
Sarah’s new memoir, Drinking Games, is available here and wherever books are sold.