In 2019, at the age of 46, I was diagnosed with breast cancer.
There was no family history. No genetic link. No obvious explanation.
Like so many people facing a cancer diagnosis, I found myself asking the question: Why me?
The truth is, I’ll never know exactly what caused my cancer.
But what I do know is this: for decades, I drank alcohol without understanding its relationship to breast cancer risk.
No one told me that alcohol is a Group 1 carcinogen. No one explained that it is linked to at least seven types of cancer, including breast cancer. No one mentioned that breast cancer risk increases even at relatively low levels of drinking (one drink per week).
Instead, I grew up in a culture that told women wine was sophisticated, relaxing and deserved.
We were sold wine o’clock.
We were sold “mum deserves a drink.”
We were sold the idea that alcohol was self-care.
What we weren’t sold was informed consent.
That, to me, is where this conversation begins. Women deserve to know the facts—not because we need another reason to feel guilty, but because we deserve the chance to make informed decisions about something that affects our health.
It is also why I find the public reaction to people who stop drinking so revealing.
If someone says they’ve quit smoking, most people respond with congratulations.
Nobody accuses them of joining the anti-smoking police. Nobody argues that cigarettes are fine in moderation. Nobody tells them to lighten up and enjoy life.
Yet when someone decides to stop drinking alcohol, the reaction is often very different.
Suddenly the comments arrive.
“Everything in moderation.”
“Life’s too short.”
“Here come the alcohol police.”
“Why are people always telling us what not to do?”
It’s a curious double standard.
Smoking is widely understood as harmful. Alcohol by contrast, remains deeply embedded in our culture. It is the reward after a hard day, the centrepiece of celebration and the symbol of relaxation and connection.
So when alcohol is questioned, people often react defensively.
Seven years ago, I would have been one of them.
I thought people who didn’t drink were boring. I couldn’t understand why anyone would willingly choose to miss out. I assumed life without alcohol would be smaller.
I was wrong.
From my late teens through to my mid-forties, drinking was a significant part of my life. I wasn’t the stereotype people imagine when they think of someone struggling with alcohol. I built a successful career. I raised three boys. I rarely took a sick day. I could get up after a big night on two or three hours of sleep and still go for a run.
From the outside, I looked like I was coping.
But underneath, I knew something wasn’t right.
There were the memory lapses. Mornings spent piecing together conversations from the night before. And, most importantly, there was a deep knowing that my drinking didn’t feel aligned with who I wanted to be.
It wasn’t until I started questioning its role in my life – and the shame and regret that often followed a blowout – that I began consider taking a long term break.
One of the biggest myths I believed was that life without alcohol would be less fun.
That I’d miss out.
That football games, music festivals, parties, holidays and winery visits would somehow lose their sparkle.
They didn’t.
On 1 July this year, I celebrate seven years alcohol-free. And every one of those experiences is still part of my life.
In many cases, they’re better.
I’m more present. I remember conversations. I wake up feeling good.
I don’t spend the next day recovering. My confidence no longer depends on what’s in my glass.
The irony is that the things I feared losing were never actually created by alcohol in the first place.
Connection wasn’t in the wine. Joy wasn’t in the champagne.
Confidence wasn’t in the cocktail.
Those things were already available to me. Alcohol simply convinced me they weren’t.
What I found wasn’t a life of deprivation.
It was a life of possibility.
Better sleep. More energy. Greater emotional resilience.
More self-trust. A deeper sense of freedom.
And perhaps that’s what makes this conversation uncomfortable.
Because once you’ve experienced the benefits, it’s difficult not to wonder what else we’ve accepted without questioning.
What other assumptions are we carrying?
What other habits are we defending simply because they’re familiar?
The reality is that alcohol doesn’t need defending.
It’s already everywhere. It’s marketed, celebrated, normalised and woven into almost every social occasion.
What is does need is scrutiny, conversation and education.
Not because everyone needs to stop drinking.
But because everyone deserves the chance to make informed choices about their health and wellbeing.
That to me is the real issue. Not whether people choose alcohol or sobriety.
But whether women are told the truth before they are expected to cheerfully raise a glass.
We celebrate people who quit smoking. We applaud people who improve their diet. We encourage people to exercise more.
So why do we become defensive when someone questions alcohol?