Traveling Sober Is Hard, but It Made Me More Honest

I didn’t start drinking until I was 25 — late by many standards — but once I did, alcohol quickly became both a social and professional currency.

As a management consultant, drinking was part of the job — be it wine during team dinners or Champagne toasts for successful product launches. It was also how I connected with friends, loosened up in unfamiliar places, and celebrated the highs of life on the road

Over the years, my passport filled up with stamps from trips where the days often followed the same pattern: explore by day, enjoy a drink or two at night. Warm sake in Japanese izakayas, a pint of Guinness in Dublin to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day, and a cold beer after hiking in Patagonia weren’t just drinks; they were part of how I celebrated traveling the world. I saw it as a way to immerse myself in local culture.

But something shifted the year I turned 50.

At first, it was a personal challenge where a “dry trip” extended a little longer to see how I felt. But the longer I stayed alcohol-free, the more curious I became about what else might shift.

Could I still feel joy at a celebratory dinner with friends without a glass of wine? Would I feel left out while traveling? Would people look at me differently, or worse, would I look at myself differently?

Sober travel

The first test came during a work trip to Switzerland. One night for dinner, we visited Fiescherblick, a boutique hotel in the Bernese Alps. I was surprised to find out they offered a non-alcoholic pairing menu.

That night, as the Eiger North Face glowed pink in the evening light, I sat down to one of the most memorable meals of my life. Each course arrived paired with a thoughtfully crafted elixir, like the rhubarb-kombucha aperitif that tingled on my tongue or a chilled berry and basil infusion with a root vegetable medley.

Each sip was as intentional and layered as any wine pairing I’d had in the past. I felt more aware and noticed how I slowed down during the meal, relishing every bite and sip. My body felt satiated but never dulled, and there was no fuzziness or brain fog — just the clarity of a crisp Alpine night and the satisfaction of enjoying every bite.

Since then, I’ve continued to travel alcohol-free. Some trips have been easy, but others have been really hard.

On an outdoor adventure-filled trip through Northern Ireland, known for its whiskey and beer, I felt discombobulated, like I was missing out on a big part of the local culture.

The hardest one was a two-week solo Antarctica cruise, during which the feeling of FOMO was very strong, especially when South America’s best wines were served complimentary at dinner.

Line of defense

Almost 9 months have passed, and there are still moments when I’m handed a drink and feel a pang of awkwardness or worse, when someone asks, “Why not just have one?” with a puzzled smile. Social drinking is so normalized in travel that choosing to opt out can feel like rebellion.

But my choice has also been liberating. I’ve learned to start my days earlier and with more energy and to find other ways to connect with locals, like asking servers at restaurants about their favorite hangouts or listening to traditional Irish music at a local bar in Derry.

I no longer plan my evenings around drinks; instead, I look for live music, tea houses, night markets, or just quiet spaces to reflect.

Oddly enough, I feel more adventurous than I did before. Not drinking has pushed me to be more creative and intentional about how I seek joy. It’s also helped me be more honest with myself and with others. I’ve realized how often I used alcohol as a shortcut to connecting with people when what I really needed was genuine curiosity and vulnerability.

I’m not here to make a case for sobriety or to say I’ll never drink again. I’m simply in a season of exploring what it means to be fully awake to my experiences and how that changes the way I travel.

Going alcohol-free at 50 started as a personal experiment, but it’s evolved into a new way to move through the world.