
A letter to the woman who pours herself wine at 8pm and calls it “me time” — you’re not drinking to escape, you’re drinking because somewhere along the way you learned that relaxation requires permission, and the glass in your hand is the only permission slip you know how to write for yourself
The moment you realize that glass of wine isn’t your reward for surviving another day, but your self-prescribed medication for a condition called “I don’t deserve to rest without a reason,” everything about your evening ritual will suddenly make devastating sense.





