To keep the cold at bay one December night in 2022, my friend Justine and I got together for some mulled wine, a hot drink as delicious as it is sentimental to me, reminding me of holiday gatherings and Christmas markets back home in the Czech Republic. As the familiar sweet smell of star anise, cloves, cinnamon, and lemon filled my apartment, I declared out loud (more to myself than to Justine) that I had a 10-mile run on my training plan the next day, so I needed to take the night easy.

I was training for a 30K run on my 30th birthday, my longest distance to date, so I wanted to be rested and hydrated. Three cups of mulled wine later, I woke up from a short doze at 3 a.m. with a headache, just to helplessly stare at the ceiling until falling back asleep sometime in the early morning hours, swearing to myself I would never drink again. Tale as old as time.

I first came home drunk when I was 15. My parents didn’t notice. It was the year they were splitting. Their arguments were quiet, but the consequences spoke volumes. Money had become a point of contention at one point, and I was withdrawn from after-school activities, including basketball and the majority of my dance classes. I didn’t know what to do with myself. So when a clique I had been seeing around my hometown invited me to hang out with them, I was happy for some distraction from my newly gained free time as much as the silent war at home. They were the cool kids, which meant I was cool now, too! They drank cheap boxed wine any night—school or weekend—they could pull enough money together. They came from divorced or one-parent families. No one was waiting for them to come home either. I felt understood. And so when the boxed wine made its round to me, I took a swig, and then another one. I despised the taste, but that didn’t matter; I belonged.