I’ve always been someone who knew her limits. Whether it was in emotions, words, or wine—I believed in moderation. For years, a glass or two of wine was just that: a quiet celebration, a moment of lightness shared with a friend or enjoyed in solitude. Never more, never less.

But then came that Sunday. A rare event with no responsibilities, no deadlines, no alarm clock the next morning. Just me, some laughter, good company, and a bottle of vodka that didn’t seem so threatening at the time.

It felt like a well-deserved release. A celebration of life. An invitation to loosen up the guardrails for once. And I took it. Willingly.

And yes—it was fun.

For a while.

Until it wasn’t.

In just an hour it wasn’t just fun , but a nightmare for the friends taking care of me. My body, so used to moderation, revolted. Nausea, dehydration, pounding headaches, and a strange pressure in my chest. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t even think straight.

I brushed it off initially as a one-time aftereffect. But then came the lingering fatigue, the persistent acidity, and a dull pain under my ribs. Blood work and doctor visits followed. Mild stomach inflammation, hormonal imbalances, dehydration symptoms. My body, in its own language, was asking: “Why did you do this to me?”

All for some moments of laughter & letting go.

And that’s when a question began gnawing at me:
Was this fleeting fun worth the weeks of discomfort that followed?

During my time of unrest and reflection, I turned inward. I needed to understand not just what happened, but what it revealed. And like a gentle guide, “Try not to resist the changes that come your way. Instead, let life live through you.” Rumi.
I realized my body was changing. My tolerance, my needs, even my definition of fun. It wasn’t betrayal—it was evolution. And I needed to respect that.

Is a “Boring” Life Better?

The mind is a tricky companion. During recovery, it whispered many things. Maybe it’s better to not have any fun at all. Maybe I should just stick to a quiet life. Maybe that’s safer.

But here’s what I’ve realized: safety and joy are not mutually exclusive. Life doesn’t have to be a choice between reckless pleasure and sterile boredom.

Yes, I took a plunge that backfired. But isn’t that what life is—a collection of plunges, experiments, risks, and recoveries? One bad day doesn’t define me. It teaches me.

And no, I don’t regret having fun. I regret underestimating the consequences. I regret not pausing between drinks to listen to how I was feeling. But I don’t regret living.

Because in the end, life is a bouquet of adventures—some scented sweet, some with hidden thorns. If we stop reaching for it out of fear, we stop living altogether.

I still enjoy a good glass of alcohol. But now I do it with deeper presence. One glass. Sipped slowly. With water nearby, food in my stomach, and a peaceful heart.

I don’t drink to escape. I drink to toast. To celebrate. To mark joy, not manufacture it.

Balance isn’t about avoiding all risk. It’s about honoring your limits while still tasting life.

So here’s what I want to say to anyone who’s had one such moment—one moment of too much, one experience that left you reeling:
You’re not reckless. You’re human.

Rumi said, “There is a candle in your heart, ready to be kindled. There is a void in your soul, ready to be filled.” So go ahead, take the plunge once in a while. Laugh till your sides hurt. Toast to love and life. But remember: the real fun lies in being able to wake up the next morning, full of gratitude—not regret.

Let fun be your color, not your consequence. Let life be lived—but lived wisely.