Opinion|I gave up drinking four years ago. I’m still dealing with the drinking culture.

Maybe you made a New Year’s resolution to drink less or stop drinking altogether. Maybe you’ve committed to “Dry January.” You may have been shocked when the surgeon general said last week that drinking alcohol is a leading cause of preventable cancer and that alcoholic beverages should carry warning labels like cigarettes.

Whatever the reason, we are rethinking alcohol in our lives.

As someone who quit drinking four years ago, shortly after my brother passed away—a time of reflection for me—I am always inspired when people tell me they are considering quitting drinking. Partly because I knew quitting smoking required more than just overcoming thirst; It also involves confronting aspects of our culture that normalize and romanticize drinking and view those who stop drinking with suspicion and contempt.

I stopped drinking because I was tired of being tired, tired of being confused and sick, tired of not being able to recognize myself. I felt like I was going to die and I wanted to live.

But giving up is not without fear.

I don’t know who I would be without alcohol. I don’t know if I’ll still be funny. More importantly to me, I don’t know if I would be able to use my creativity without some way of achieving transcendence.

In her autobiography, the late singer Natalie Cole described a moment in her career when “I truly believed I needed drugs to perform at my best.” At one point, I worried that without drinking, language would The poetry will disappear.

This fear turned out to be unfounded.

Quitting alcohol was one of the best decisions I ever made. I’m healthier and happier. I think more clearly and sleep more soundly. I no longer lose things or forget things. I can sit quietly and think without getting restless. I saved a ton of money.

Someone once told me that I was one of the lucky ones: my drinking was habitual, not physically addictive. In fact, my body did not crave alcohol and I had no withdrawal symptoms. When I stopped drinking, the test was how to deal with difficult emotional moments.

Later, I began to realize that drinking was a way for me to relieve my feelings of being overwhelmed. When I drink, I can regulate my emotional highs and lows. Life can feel cruel sometimes, so I blunted it.

Resisting the urge to drink turns out to be just one foot in the door; fighting the drinking culture is another.

I’ve always understood the moral judgments about overconsumption, but I didn’t expect those about not consuming.

People who don’t drink are often ridiculed as chatty, joyless, mood killers, or lack the self-control to properly participate in normal parts of adult social life. Of course, people often seem to assume that something tragic must have prompted your sobriety, a devastating diagnosis or huge embarrassment – you didn’t pick the bench, you were ejected from the game. The problem is you, not the alcohol.

It’s as if some people need a trauma story to understand your decision to quit drinking; otherwise, your sudden abstinence will cast a pall over their continued consumption, and they will view your personal choice as a criticism of them.

For this reason, people who quit drinking are constantly asked why; I am always asked. Some people have an answer that satisfies this question—if they describe “hitting rock bottom,” for example—but others don’t. Anyway, it’s really no one’s business.

Now I sometimes end inquiries with a joke: “I quit because I drank all the stuff.” This is usually enough to be self-deprecating and keep people going.

But the question often lingers: Why can’t I continue to be immersed in the glamor of elite drinking, in which people become amateur sommeliers, displaying their knowledge and fine wine collections as markers of class? Why can’t I occasionally enjoy a pretentious cocktail made with herbs or exotic bitters and garnished with dried fruit or edible flowers?

Well, elite alcohol is still alcohol and I still don’t want or need it.

I don’t think everyone realizes what an alien experience it is to be treated like a weirdo because you made a healthy choice.

Precisely because I’m subject to these judgments as a non-drinker, I try not to judge those who do. My boyfriend is a moderate drinker and I occasionally meet friends at bars.

But now I’m struck by the sadness of those spaces, and I can’t connect with the parts of me that once enjoyed them. How did I get used to the smell of dirty towels and cheap disinfectant? Why didn’t I notice the loneliness hidden in the loud laughter? How come I didn’t think of it as a funeral dressed up for a holiday as I do now?

At home, I keep alcoholic and non-alcoholic beverages available for when I have company. I host the occasional cocktail party—I’m still looking for a better name that quickly means “evening party”—and to my surprise, more and more of my guests join me in not drinking.

I see my role in the circle of friends as not to scold but to model a dynamic of sobriety. I’m trying to remove the stigma of being a killjoy so people know they can get sober and stay social. I’m trying to change the culture.