Everything you need to live your best no-alcohol / low-alcohol lifestyle.
I used to think I was a pretty good conversationalist. I had stories to tell, anecdotes to share, witty one-liners to throw in at just the right moment, and a seemingly endless supply of fascinating observations that simply HAD to be contributed to whatever conversation was happening around me.
And after a few wines? Well, clearly my contributions became even more fascinating. At least to me.
One of the things I never anticipated when I stopped drinking was just how much my conversational style would change. Not because I suddenly became wiser, more intelligent or more interesting, but because I became quieter. And, somewhat ironically, a much better conversationalist.
I started noticing that the urge to jump in with my two cents’ worth was becoming much gentler. Instead of eagerly waiting for a gap in the conversation so I could share my latest brilliant insight, I found myself pausing. Did I really need to say this? Would it actually add something? Was my fabulous little anecdote worth interrupting someone who was sharing something important to them?
Quite often, the answer was no. And, surprisingly, I was perfectly happy with that.
I discovered how enjoyable it was to sit back and listen. Really listen. Not the sort of listening where you’re mentally rehearsing your response while the other person is still talking. Or the sort where, after a few wines, your attention wanders off to some distant galaxy and you suddenly realise you’ve missed the last five minutes of the conversation. I mean genuinely being present.
I also started noticing something interesting as evenings progressed. While some of my drinking companions were becoming a little louder, more repetitive, emotional or sleepy, I was remaining alert, engaged and relatively even keeled.
Now, I know exactly what my former drinking self would have thought about someone like me sitting there stone-cold sober. Oh crap, she’s going to remember everything. Is she secretly judging us? Keeping a mental record of every stupid thing we say?
But here’s what I discovered when I became that non-drinker: I wasn’t judging anyone at all.
Occasionally I’d find myself smiling inwardly as someone enthusiastically launched into a story for the third time. Not smugly. More with a gentle recognition of my former self, who could become rather spectacularly performative after a few drinks.
And with that recognition came a lovely little sigh of contentment. Because I knew that, unlike my former self, I wouldn’t be waking up at 3 am conducting a forensic investigation into the previous evening.
Did I talk too much? Did I interrupt her? Was that joke actually funny? Did I offend someone? Do I need to call anyone tomorrow and apologise?
Ah yes, the dreaded morning-after social audit. Not something I miss.
Another surprise was discovering that I actually had more conversational stamina without alcohol. I used to wonder how non-drinkers managed to stay awake and engaged at social gatherings without the lovely little buzz that I thought was keeping me going.
Turns out, the buzz wasn’t quite the conversational superpower I’d imagined. While I thought I was becoming more animated and entertaining, my mental sharpness was gradually packing up and heading home.
But perhaps the biggest change was what happened to my listening skills.
Once I stopped feeling the need to contribute my own story to every discussion, I became more curious about other people’s stories. Instead of responding with, “Oh, that reminds me of when I…” I started asking questions. What happened next? How did that make you feel? What did you learn from that?
Sometimes those questions opened up conversations that went somewhere neither of us had anticipated. People would reflect, explore, reconsider things, and occasionally discover something about themselves simply because someone had given them the space to keep talking.
What I’ve also discovered is that the more deeply I listen, the more I remember. When catching up with someone again, rather than simply asking, “How have you been?” I find myself recalling what we’d discussed last time and asking how things turned out. I’m also better at remembering names, events and little details that previously would have slipped under my radar.
I always thought I was a good listener, but if I’m honest, I haven’t always been a good rememberer. And it’s such a nice feeling to see the surprise on someone’s face when I recall something they’d shared with me weeks earlier and show a genuine interest in what happened next.
I love that so much!
As this happened more regularly, I started to realise I was becoming the sort of conversationalist I most enjoyed spending time with. Someone who was genuinely interested, who could explore a topic beyond the superficial, who didn’t need to compete for airtime or have the funniest story in the room.
And I started leaving social occasions feeling not only that I’d had a lovely time, but that I’d learned something. About someone else, about myself, or about the world around me.
Of course, I still love a good story, a cheeky one-liner and the occasional opportunity to hold court. I’m not suggesting that giving up alcohol turned me into some serene, endlessly patient listening guru. Far from it! But these days I’m much more conscious of when to contribute and when to simply enjoy what someone else has to say.
And the best part? I get to wake up the following morning remembering the conversations, feeling good about the connections I’ve made, and not wondering whether I’ve inadvertently stepped on someone’s toes, hogged the limelight or made a roaring dick of myself.
If only I’d known back then how damn good that would feel, I might have changed my drinking habits a whole lot earlier.
Disclaimer: Perspectives articles reflect the views and opinions of their individual authors and do not necessarily represent those of NoLo Life. They are published to encourage informed, open discussion about alcohol and its role in contemporary life from an Australian / Aotearoa (New Zealand) perspective.
