I almost had a heart attack.
Two tiny bottles. Flavored vodka. Tucked away like an afterthought, almost careless in how unhidden they were. And suddenly, I was standing in my seventeen-year-old son’s room, holding evidence that time had moved faster than my mind had caught up with.
At what age did you have your first drink?
Before you answer, sit with it for a moment. Not the polished version of the story, or the one you tell at dinner parties and laugh about with friends. But the real one, the awkward one. I mean the one shaped by who you were then, who was around you, and what you were trying to feel or escape from. Because that’s the part that hit me the hardest.
Not the alcohol or even the rule-breaking. But the realization that my child is standing at the same invisible doorway most people pass through quietly, unevenly, and often without much guidance beyond be careful or don’t get caught.
I don’t drink. I never really have. But I have lived long enough to know people who do and to understand that for many, their first drink wasn’t about alcohol at all. Instead, it was about the moment. The people. The feeling. Being handed something that felt symbolic, like an entry point into adulthood. Ordinary and charged at the same time.
So there I stood with vodka bottles in hand, cycling through every emotion parents aren’t supposed to admit out loud: fear, anger, guilt, confusion, tenderness, uncertainty. A mental slideshow of Did I fail?, How much do I need to worry? How do I fix this? What happens next?
Parenting doesn’t come with a manual for moments like this. There’s no universally correct reaction, just a series of choices colored by our own history. And that’s the uncomfortable truth: how we respond is often shaped not so much by our kids’ actions, but more by our own experiences, beliefs, and blind spots.
And so as much as I wanted to, I didn’t yell, but I didn’t ignore it either. Instead, I sat with the weight of it. With the understanding that this wasn’t the moment everything went wrong, but instead, it was just another one of life’s moments. One of many intersections where childhood and adulthood blur into something undefined.
Because drinking, like so many rites of passage, is rarely just about the substance itself. It is about timing, access, trust, silence, and conversation. It is about what kids feel they can ask, admit, or hide.
And maybe that’s the real work here.
Not pretending we were perfect.
Not pretending they won’t experiment.
But deciding whether we meet these moments with fear alone or with honesty, boundaries, and room for dialogue.
I don’t have a neat ending yet. No morals wrapped in a bow. Just a quiet awareness that parenting, like becoming, is messy and unfinished. That our kids will stumble into experiences we may not share ourselves, but that still shape who they’re becoming.
And maybe the question isn’t ‘What age did you have your first drink?’
But instead: ‘Who was there to talk to you about it afterward?
That’s the part I’m still figuring out, so wish me luck.
