Declining Invitations: Why I Don’t Drink, Smoke, or Numb Out

Oh to be a young woman in Los Angeles who doesn't party or entertain hook-up culture.

I’ve always had a complicated relationship with substances—though not in the way people usually expect. Growing up, the only context I knew for alcohol or drugs was medical. My grandparents managed chronic illnesses like diabetes and emphysema with prescription medications. The wildest it ever got was my grandmother sipping a strawberry daiquiri—maybe twice a year. I never once saw my grandfather drink or smoke. His own father had been an alcoholic, and witnessing that fallout made him steer clear of substances for life. Unconsciously, I think I absorbed part of that conviction too.

When people picture their twenties—especially in cities like Los Angeles—they often imagine late nights, wild parties, and stories that begin, “We were so drunk…” We see it in film, hear it in music, and feel it in the social scripts handed to us. But for me, those so-called “party years” never arrived. I never had the morning after regret, wondering who I was waking up beside or what string of bad choices from last night led me here.

I experimented once, in a quiet, private setting—with someone I was dating—a single hit of LSD. I was more curious about the spiritual effects LSD had, I wasn’t just wanting to trip for the sake of it. I’ve had a few glasses of wine here and there. I was engaged to a sommelier at age 22, and learned to appreciate wine and how it’s made. I got tipsy during tastings—not by choice, but by volume. I smoked cigarettes for a year in my early twenties because I thought it looked cool. And I’ve taken a puff or two from a joint in social settings. But none of it ever hooked me.

There was no revolutionary high. No thrill. No craving for more.

In fact, any time I’ve been drunk—a number I can count on two hands—I’ve just longed to return to clarity. I don’t understand the appeal of forgetting yourself for a night only to wake up with a queasy stomach and cloudy head. Even cannabis, which I find more tolerable than alcohol, doesn’t appeal to me in a “I need to make this part of my life” kind of way. I could go the rest of my life without it and feel no lack. I’ve never been a partier—not at 20, not at 30. I avoid bars and any environment where the dominant energy is inebriation. After thirty minutes, I’m bolting for the exit. being around a bunch of drunk and high people for me, feels like stepping in quicksand.

There’s a deeper context to all of this, too.

Last year, I shared a personal story that went viral—reaching over 6 million people and landing in multiple headlines. It was about how, as an infant, I was traded for drugs—then rescued and legally adopted by my grandparents.

Read it here:
https://www.newsweek.com/woman-sold-parents-drugs-newborn-1872302

I first heard that story as a teenager. And when I did, I made myself a quiet promise: I would not walk the same path they did. I would not let substances define my story, much less be a character in it.

I figured I probably carry the addiction gene—so I wouldn’t tempt it. With all the death and loss I’ve experienced, if I had gone the way of substance to cope — i’d probably have a major problem on my hands by now.

To this day, my biological mother remains an active alcoholic. I haven’t spoken to her in years. For a long time, I clung to the hope that she’d get better—that she’d step into the role of parent, especially after my grandmother, who raised me, died when I was twelve. But addiction is a relentless, cruel disease I came to learn. Every time we did talk, the roles reversed. I was the one offering comfort, trying to hold things together. She would call at 4 a.m., drunk and crying, pouring out her regrets as if I could fix it all—while I was still just trying to grow up.

In 2017, when I was living with a boyfriend in West L.A., he worked as a sober coach at one of those luxury Malibu rehabs overlooking the ocean. When I told him about my biological mom, he talked to his boss, who generously offered her a spot at the facility—completely free, full room and board. She turned it down.

You can’t help someone who doesn’t want help. They have to want it for themselves.

I chose a different high for my life. Art has always been my drug of choice—music, writing, painting. More recently, meditation. Where some reach for a bottle, I lace up my shoes and jog for miles. I sit and breathe. I chant my mantra. I pray. I sing. I talk to a friend. And sometimes, I write about it here.

This isn’t a moral judgment, either. I don’t think I’m better than anyone who drinks, smokes, or uses. I’m just offering a perspective for those of us who declined the party invite—who never wanted to go in the first place.

It’s not just about substances either. I’ve also never had a one-night stand. I’ve gone on dates where, when it became clear I wasn’t going to "put out" by date two or three, the messages stopped coming. And that’s okay. I see our bodies as sacred—and believe what we consume, who we let in, and how we care for ourselves leaves lasting imprints. Every choice alters us in some way.

I’m what they call a sapiosexual—I’m drawn more to a man’s mind than his appearance or anything else he’s got. I don’t see a handsome stranger and wonder what he looks like naked. I wonder what books he reads. What his favorite record is. I fall through conversation. The more I learn, the more I like—and then, yes, I might wonder what he looks like horizontally. But first, I want to know his mind. I love genuine sweetness and thoughtfulness. That’s where everything begins for me.

Energy is just so sacred—and increasingly, I treat it as such. Maybe that makes me seem uptight or particular. I have no regrets. Those who understand, do. And those who don’t—don’t need to.

Living in a city like Los Angeles, social pressure to conform—especially in groups—is constant. Whether it’s being passed a joint or handed a drink, there’s always an expectation to partake. That’s part of why many of my closest friends are older. At a certain point, a lot of people grow out of substances—and with that, the social scenes that revolve around them. There’s no pressure to inhale, drink, or pretend. Just presence. Just connection.

Since beginning Transcendental Meditation nearly two months ago—twice a day for twenty minutes—I’ve felt another shift. Even the occasional beer or glass of wine with dinner I once enjoyed has started to lose its appeal. I already avoided liquor. Now I’ve stopped even accepting a hit from a joint in social settings. My body and mind are asking complete clarity.

This isn’t about deprivation. It’s about devotion.

To full consciousness. To a life I can remember—start to finish.
I don’t want to miss any of this.

Maybe you’ll see yourself in that, and we can be “squares” together.

Or maybe you’ll just see another way some of us exist within the human experience.

🙏🏻