I Stopped Drinking Two Years Ago. Here’s What Really Changed.

Editor’s note: Today, we are publishing Aniruddha Mahale’s third essay in our publication. In his first piece, he revealed how getting a six-pack was amazing: though he did it for the “shallow” vanity reason, he discovered abs weren’t the point. In his second piece, he shared the raw struggle of quitting smoking after six painful failed attempts over the years. And today, he’s celebrating two years of sobriety and invites us into the deeply personal journey of quitting alcohol. While many offer surface-level hacks on how to do something, Mahale bravely goes deeper, capturing what often goes unnoticed: the inner demons we all fight along these transformative paths. His vulnerable reflections on sobriety remind us about the hard inner work big life changes needs.

Aniruddha is the author of Get Out, a comprehensive dating guide for gay men. He is currently working on his first full-length fiction novel. Find him at @akneerude on Instagram.

Also, I have a small ask: here is a short feedback form to help us understand how we’re doing. From day one, TBT has been published in service of our readers—and I want to ensure we’re on the right track. Would you please share your thoughts? Link here. Thank you!

— Samarth Bansal (samarth@thewholetruthfoods.com)

I

A little over 750 days ago, I had my last drink: a triple measure of gin (after a night of grabbing Long Island Iced teas at four of my favourite bars). It was forty days after I woke up in a pool of vomit (mine) in a five-star hotel suite (not mine) at 3 a.m. It was a further six weeks after I came home blackout drunk from a first date, with mysterious bruises all over my left arm and leg. Five months after I missed a flight because I passed out at a friend’s farewell party. Two years after I heckled my nephew on his first birthday.

Well, you get the gist.

II

Hi, my name is Aniruddha and—contrary to whatever you’ve read—I’m not an alcoholic. At least not anymore. For most of my life, I have been what people euphemistically call a “heavy drinker.” On 1st February 2023, at 34, I stopped, which seems to be that. Did I stop because I thought I had a drinking problem?

I still don’t know the answer to that question. If you’re asking yourself if your drinking is problematic, then, at the very least, drinking is probably not serving you.

The first person to get a drink, the last one to leave the party, I’d tell everyone that I had my drinking in control. But ‘one drink’ would quickly turn into ten, a beer would turn into five pitchers, and my night would soon teeter into a mess of bad decisions and ‘Buy One Get One Free’ bar offers. My drinking stories ranged from comical (“Does anyone know where my shoe is?”) to distressing (“Does anyone know why my Credit card was canceled last night?”) to borderline scary (“Does anyone know how I got this bruise down my left thigh?”)

I’d wake up after blackouts in bars, in cabs, and often, in stranger’s beds. I’d feel the slightest twinge of shame—having no recollection of what I said or did the previous night—and assuming the worst, I’d promise to make amends.

But then, I’d repeat the cycle all over again.

Over the years, I realised my drinking was no party. It was constant and necessary. There was always a nagging feeling, a voice from somewhere deep in my mind, telling me that I had a very serious problem. The only thing that could dull that feeling and mask that voice was alcohol. Alcohol helped me avoid the discomforts of being me.

So why did I drink?

The answer was both brutally simple and maddeningly complex: I drank to disappear. There was something delicious about letting the buzz take over, becoming a passive passenger in my own life. I’d sit back, glass in hand, and watch myself fade into a pleasant haze. A Brand New Person™—Fun! Confident! Exuberant! Outgoing! Witty! Charming! (In reality: Loud! Obnoxious! Sloppy! Aggressive!)

But here’s the thing I finally had to admit to myself: what I called relaxation was just self-erasure. I wasn’t unwinding; I was unraveling.

As someone who suffers from chronic anxiety and loathes himself most days, I was always searching for little shortcuts to become someone else. My interior monologue is like a drill sergeant, one who knows all my sore spots and heaps abuse on me whatever I say, do, or think. If I suffer, it’s because I’m too sensitive, too weak to handle the harsh truths of the world—which means I deserve to feel bad. If I’m not suffering, I should be. If I don’t like myself, it’s because there’s nothing worth liking in my life of mediocrity.

III

I don’t know when it happened, but suddenly I couldn’t go out without (often solo) pre-drinks or post-drinks and, of course, all the drinks in between. I couldn’t seem to socialize on any level—date, hang out with friends, have sex—without being, if not completely drunk, then deliciously teetering on the edge of it. I was always tired, always grey. I didn’t connect the dots though, not yet.

I lied to myself constantly. If I didn’t mix my drinks, I would be fine. If I alternated with glasses of water, I’d be fine. If I ate half a loaf of bread after drinking, I’d be fine. No matter how much I drank—which was an increasingly worrying amount—the carbs would “absorb” (or so I thought) the alcohol, and the water would negate the booze, holding off the debilitating hangover that loomed every Sunday morning. Or Wednesday morning. Or Friday afternoon.

The only benefit of alcohol, besides the taste of a deliciously crafted sugary cocktail, was this tiny jolt of euphoria—but that began to come with a higher and higher price. Drinking became a twisted game of Russian Roulette, one in which I never knew how I would feel after just a few drinks.

My drinking was exhausting, yes, but it was even more exhausting for the people around me. Almost every single well-meaning friend has sat me down at some point to ask me if I was okay (which is the universal shorthand for asking someone if they have a drinking problem), concerns were thrown (mostly by them), heated words were exchanged (mostly by me), and relationships were fractured (me again). They’d never bring it up again, and we’d find ourselves back at the bar.

My therapist told me last year that if you’re going through life and it seems like everyone is being an asshole to you, you are likely the asshole.

For years at end, I had consistently disappointed friends, family, and my mother. I drank past half-hearted apologies and empty promises. It makes my blood boil—my complete disregard for the people in my life and how I chose to take zero accountability for my actions—I’m angry as I write this, and I’ve been writing this piece for the past three months.

But anger is a good place to start. Anger makes you see things.

Anger makes you want to change.

IV

I finally quit drinking two years ago in late winter—when the days were short and dark—the season had felt like an appropriate match to confront a reckoning with alcohol that was decades in the making.

When people ask me what it is that made me quit, I have no definite answer. I had teetered deliciously close to the edge of rock bottom an unfortunate number of times (plural) to isolate one such incident. Was it when I woke up in a pool of vomit in that five-star hotel suite? Was it when I came home bruised and black-out drunk from that first date? Was it when I missed my flight after my friend’s farewell party? Was it when I woke up in all those beds that belonged to strangers? Was it because I simply had…enough?

It would be dishonest to pinpoint one specific reason I stopped drinking (I can list down fifteen, but that’s a different story). I know that I didn’t want to wait till I hit rockbottom, even though I was precariously close on—rather unfortunately—more than one occasion. I’ll tell you one thing with full certainity: I stopped because I chose myself over a drink.

And sometimes, that’s all the reason you need.

V

On February 1st, 2023, I finally had my last drink. I had my last hangover. I had my last blackout. I let alcohol control me and hurt me for the last time.

The first few weeks were surprisingly… boring.

No earth-shattering revelations or sudden bursts of energy. Just me, canceling plans by the dozen and choosing to stay homebound until my friends got the hint and stopped inviting me to bars. The hardest part wasn’t avoiding alcohol—it was explaining to people why someone who “didn’t think he had a problem” would choose not to drink.

And then something interesting happened around day 30.

I started noticing subtle shifts in my daily life. Nothing monumental—it was the little things. I started waking up earlier. My writing sessions became longer and more focused. I started waking up brighter. My workouts became more streamlined. I started waking up happier. The first notable positive side effect was that I could wake up every day and do whatever I had planned.

I cleaned out my closet. Colour-coded my clothes. Tidied my room. Replied to a dozen unread emails. Stuck to three deadlines in a row. Woke up with my alarm.

I know that sounds simple, but when you’re used to nursing a hangover three to four days a week, it’s a huge difference. Bonus? I suddenly had access to something hangovers hadn’t let me access for almost a decade: mental clarity. The human ability to be able to think straight. It was the start of something special.

And then bit by bit, piece by piece, I saw change. Not just physical “Wow-your-face-look-so-bright-and-alive-again” change; actually “Wait-is-this-what-I-have-been-missing-out-on-along?” emotional change.

Quitting alcohol catapulted me out of my old self—no life jacket, no escape hatch. I no longer felt like I was a bystander in my own life. After putting an end to something that had made me feel so bad for so long, I realized how much I enjoyed feeling good and uncompromised all of the time. It’s remarkable that for a life that seemed so fast-paced, drinking could make one feel so stagnant.

Sobriety is exhausting work—it requires showing up every day. You have to live it, breathe it, wear it around you. You need to talk about it all the time—nay, every single chance you get—to the point people roll their eyes when you start your monologue (yes, there will be a monologue). You need to look adversity in the eye and have the courage—the absolute nerve-wracking courage to say no to its face. No explanations given. Just pure adrenaline.

Now imagine doing that to a drink.

If sobriety taught me anything, it’s this: transforming your core takes years or decades of frustration, persistence, and hard work.

Getting wasted takes about ₹3000.

It’s tiring work. Building new habits takes repetition. Think of a habit like walking through a grassy field. The first time, the grass bounces back. But walk that same path daily, and slowly a clear trail forms. That’s your brain creating neural pathways – the more you repeat an action, the more natural it becomes. Just like that path in the field, your new habits—like staying sober—need consistent steps to become effortless routines.

I remember being so enthused about staying on track, that I decided to replace the giant alcohol-shaped void with something new to obsess over: getting ridiculously ‘wow-he-should-be-on-the-cover-of-a health-magazine’ fit. To cut a long story short, that’s how I ended up getting six-pack abs.

My transformation has been far bigger than just experiencing migraine-free mornings, becoming a self-actualizing gym bro, or eventually quitting my decades-long relationship with chainsmoking. I’ve developed more compassion and a better understanding of what leads people to destroy their lives (spoiler alert: it’s alcohol).

In retrospect, I am eternally ecstatically grateful that I made this decision. I found a hobby — being obsessed with getting fit — that saved my life. Working out gave me a dopamine hit that replaced the rush from drinking.

VI

Something happens when you embrace sobriety. Your life will change. Things will be weird, and then hard, and then better. You will become the person you’re meant to be. You will be rediscovered. You will find the truth.

Some of it will be painful. Some of it will be messy. Almost all of it will be terrifying.

1. Your social life will crumble

Your friendships will wither, appear reconfigured, or wash away completely. As it turns out, giving up alcohol is the easy part. Telling people you’re giving up alcohol, on the other hand, is what wears you down.

No, I’m not on antibiotics. No, I don’t have liver inflammation, but thanks for asking. No, I’m not on a religious cleanse, how dare you. You need to know that some of your friends weren’t ready to stop drinking with you. Allow for it to happen. You’ll experience a reshuffling of your social deck. It’s weird but it’s okay. You’ll see friends pack up and leave without saying goodbye. You’ll feel sad and die a bit inside, but you’ll get through it. You’ll make new friends. You’ll make new friends that don’t drink. You’ll make plans that don’t involve alcohol. You’ll go to coffee shops, bookstores, museums, and movie theatres. You’ll go to bars and nurse a Diet Coke. And there, as you sip on that lone glass of soda, you’ll know you can get through it. Everything will be okay.

2. You’ll get your feelings back

The best thing about quitting alcohol is that you get your feelings back. The worst thing about quitting alcohol is that you get your feelings back.

If drinking is about dulling pain, when you stop, it comes flooding back. No longer encumbered with alcohol and hangovers, you have a lot of time to stew in sit with your thoughts.

Years of repressed memories come crashing in like a tsunami. That instance you mispronounced a word at a friend’s party. That time you ugly cried on a date. When you cheated on your ex, the day you threw a friend under the bus, claimed credit for a colleague’s work, slept through a meeting, and so on—it’ll all come out of nowhere, and you’ll have to deal with it. You’ll feel anger, and sadness, and fear, and joy. You’ll feel all of them at once. It’ll be lonely, and exhausting, and it will most certainly break you.

You’ll feel overwhelmed by all these feelings (even the new ones from the Inside Out sequel) but, you will, in the end, feel freer too.

3. There will be a lot of firsts

You’ll experience many firsts: the first time you attend a party sober, your first sober wedding, first sober birthday, sober first date, sober second date, the first time you had sober sex, your first sober night out, maybe even your first sober “difficult-conversation-you’ve-been-putting-off”.

Each will come with a unique set of challenges, and it will all be nerve-racking. I went to a friend’s book launch (an open bar event) sweating buckets that I’d be awkward and boring (i.e. not drunk) but no one seemed to care or notice. People are much more concerned with their own lives than yours. Learning to be social without alcohol is a lot like going through puberty again. Slowly, you’ll build a new social identity—one that’s not defined by how ‘ridiculously fun you are when you’ve had a couple of drinks’. It’ll be scary, but it’ll also be very real. Eventually, you’ll get the hang of it. You’ll survive.

A lot of sobriety is about reclaiming your life. I’d taken the easy route and built a tumultuous relationship with most situations that served alcohol—bars, parties, dates, and even holidays. On a path to replace and reclaim, I had to go back to multiple scenes of crime. Bars, parties, dates, and yes, even holidays. I had to do it over and over again till I no longer associated it as a scene of a crime. I survived.

4. Your body will surprise you

Maybe it’s because I needed to transform my life with a permanent physical metamorphosis, but you can surprise yourself when you switch to sobriety—your body jumps to recovery mode.

In fact, it will start doing strange things as it adjusts to your new life, there’ll be more sweat, more oxytocin, more energy, more serotonin, and more tears. You’ll lose weight, your skin will brighten, and your wallet might fatten. Your face will look less grey. Your eyes would look less dead. Your skin would look less defeated. Your liver will thank you. Your brain will thank you. Your heart will thank you.

Here’s something every person who is on their path to sobriety will tell you. When you quit drinking, your old self dies. It sounds brutal, but it’s true and beautiful. You begin counting the days, weeks, and months because you have been literally reborn. The person you are sober is a new one. When you start feeling better, you want to take it to the next level to see if you can feel even better. You learn who you are, what you want, and what you like. Get this—you get a second shot at happiness.

Make the most of it.

It’s worth five thousand tequila shots.

VII

1st February 2024 was supposed to be the last day of my sobriety marathon—the final finish line after which all bets would be off the table—no more rules, no more restrictions, no more “I-really-can’t-drink-because-I’ve-promise-to stay-sober for a year”.

I’d have entered open world mode—every day a fresh new challenge of “I choose not to drink today” rather than “I can’t drink today.” But then I didn’t drink that day. Or the next day. Or the day after that. Or the one after that. It’s been two years. I’ve still not had a drink.

Will I ever drink again? I have no clue. Do I look forward to drinking? Not in the slightest. See, I have no way of knowing if circumstances will push my hand towards the bottle again. But as things stand, I don’t drink and don’t want to drink.

Someone else can take my place at the bar.

I’ve been there long enough.