Fourth of July

Can we all agree that the Fourth of July is undeniably one of the biggest drinking holidays in the United States? According to Morning Consult survey data, nearly two-thirds (64%) of adults age 21 and older consider beer part of American tradition, while 63% say that “beer is as American as apple pie.” Funny—holidays are supposed to be about fun and celebration. This year feels especially significant as the United States celebrates its semiquincentennial, marking 250 years since the adoption of the Declaration of Independence.

But holidays aren’t always joyful for everyone. They can bring loneliness, stress, and anxiety—all emotions that have become more apparent since I chose an alcohol-free lifestyle. This will be my first sober Fourth of July.

My older brother, Allen, hosts his annual “night before the Fourth” extravaganza, where our family gathers before taking the kids to the family-friendly parade. Police cars and fire trucks roll by with blaring sirens while volunteers toss candy to children lining the sidewalks. Meanwhile, the parents sip from their Tervis tumblers filled with their poison of choice because, let’s be honest, we all know the saying: candy is dandy, but liquor is quicker.

The evening ends with the town’s spectacular fireworks display, filling the sky with brilliant colors for thirty minutes. Did I mention everyone starts drinking around 1:00 p.m.—if they haven’t pregamed beforehand, which my immediate family consistently does.

Allen lives in a condo in the predominantly white, affluent town where we grew up. We usually spend the afternoon crowded beneath a pop-up tent on his one-car driveway, trying to escape the blistering sun. The garage door stands open, revealing coolers packed with every kind of beer, wine cooler, and hard seltzer imaginable. Inside, the cozy basement houses a fully stocked bar with Costco-sized bottles of brown and clear liquor. People drift freely between the house and the driveway, drink in hand, catching up with relatives they see only once a year and having conversations they probably wouldn’t have without a little liquid courage.

This year, I opted out of the gathering. At only ninety-five days sober, the anxiety of being surrounded by alcohol—and by people encouraging me to drink—felt overwhelming. More importantly, I wanted to remember the experience with my children.

It made me sad to receive a Snapchat from my younger brother, Arlo, at 10:00 a.m. showing him holding a mimosa while getting his young children ready for Allen’s party later that afternoon. By then, he’ll already be chasing that warm, fuzzy buzz, maybe even slipping into a trance. Will he remember the parade with his children? Will he be one of the many people blacked out by the time the fireworks begin at 9:00 p.m.? I’ve been there before, and unfortunately, I already know the answer to both questions.

I’m proud of myself for setting a boundary this year and protecting myself from a potential relapse. Still, I wonder how I would have handled the challenge. Family dynamics alone can be difficult enough without the social pressure and the abundance of alcohol at every turn. Maybe next year will be easier.

This year, I’ll raise a different kind of toast—to remembering every moment with my family, waking up without regrets, and celebrating both freedom and my own.

Happy Birthday, America.