Sober Dating In Canada Is A Challenge — Here's How I'm Making It Work

This Essay article is part of a Narcity Media series. The views expressed are the author's own and do not necessarily reflect the views of Narcity Media.

Dating and drinking in Canada have always gone hand in hand. As a late bloomer in the world of dating, who had very little idea of how to date (sober or otherwise), my first introduction to drinking was on a first date. I felt pretty lost at the idea of talking and getting to know men or women, or even just how romantic intimacy could look. I was a deer in the headlights.

As someone from New Brunswick, drinking culture has always been a big part of our communities. My friends started drinking at parties at 13. Family members often enjoy being the first to show the younger members how to "really" drink at Kitchen Parties — gatherings where friends and family drink, eat, laugh and party in their literal kitchens. Despite all of this, I had never drunk. Not only was my childhood quite sheltered, but I saw how unhealthy my mother’s relationship with alcohol was and it did not appeal to me.

By the time I started dating at 21 years old, Tinder was already popular. New Brunswick is small, which is maybe why my Tinder match was with someone whose cousins I grew up around. My "date" thought it would be funny to drink too much and embarrass me, then get his cousins to pick us up from the restaurant. This was a sign of things to come.

Why drinking & dating don’t mix for me

On the majority of Tinder dates, my "matches" typically suggest meeting for a drink. Something about that phrase irks me now.

By the time I moved to Toronto, I had started drinking as a means to encourage socialization. When it came to dates I more easily surrendered to "going out for drinks" so I could play the game of flirting across a table while trying to get to know someone in a few hours. I let those drinks lower my emotional walls so I would be okay with kissing, or maybe more.

As my personal relationship with alcohol devolved into problematic use, I realized how much I leaned on those drinks to get through those dates. I was hyper-aware that they were letting me lower my guard — allowing me to accept behaviours from others that were in fact unacceptable, and not how I wanted to be treated on dates. Looking back, I tolerated racial microaggressions, anti-feminist behaviour, even attempts at coercion while trying to give these dates "the benefit of the doubt."

The more I began to recognize that this was what I was doing, the more other issues I was facing in my life came to light. I realized that the minute I was bored by the person across from me, I would start pounding back shots to make the date more fun and the person more interesting — which I eventually learned isn’t how dating works. I was avoiding confrontation by not simply getting up from the table, saying our intentions weren’t the same or we weren’t compatible. Instead, I just filled up on whisky sours.

Dating sober during a pandemic is, well, sobering

When the pandemic kicked off, I moved in with my father (who is Muslim) and lives in Ottawa. Due to his views on alcohol consumption, I knew drinking was a no-go and was ready to use this as an excuse to be sober. I also knew that my father, despite the fact I was 25, would hate the idea of me dating.

The first date I went on while living with my dad was early into my sobriety. My nerves and discomfort got the best of me so I ended up drinking, much to my father's and step-mother's horror. After that, I knew there was no room for slip-ups again.

From then on, I had to date sober and intentionally, the idea of which I found horrifying. I took some comfort in knowing I had no interest in staying in Ottawa so what anyone I dated thought of me wouldn’t matter.

As I found myself back on not only Tinder but also Hinge and Bumble, I was faced again with "Let's meet for drinks", "I’m a whisky guy", or "Let’s head to wine country." Hinge even has a section where you can list your alcohol, weed and drug consumption. I was immediately petrified. What would people think if I said I didn’t drink? Would they know it was a problem, something I had failed at having control over? Did it paint me as "messy?"

For the first few months, I tip-toed around mentioning my sobriety. The pandemic helped as bars weren’t open. I was able to steer the dates to walking around Indigo, getting hot chocolates, or walking around Parliament Hill.

As bars started reopening in 2021, I was back to facing this discomfort around my sobriety. Despite my insecurities and the pandemic, I safely went on 15 first dates fully sober, which was something I had never done before. I learned what I was looking for in a partner, and that just because you share similar sobriety issues with someone doesn’t immediately mean you will click.

I still have some people trying to coerce me into drinking. I recognized in myself, again, how I wanted to drink when bored or disinterested and finally started cutting dates short when it clearly wasn’t working instead of sitting in discomfort.

You can't drink away a bad date

When I moved back to Toronto in August 2021, I wanted to live sober for a while before dating again. I was worried that I would suddenly become weak, and having the keys to my own home with zero accountability felt like playing with a new set of risks with dating culture.

What I promised myself was no dating apps, but an open view on the city. I have gone to as many arts, culture, and networking events as this pandemic would allow and have said "yes" to as many opportunities as I could. I have remained sober while flirting with men and women in spaces where alcohol is present but have refrained from needing "liquid courage" to calm my nerves by drinking my own personal kryptonite.

More recently, I have started going to bars and staying out late but still return home to my cat, sober. I’ve cried tears of joy at being successful in the one area I once felt so afraid and weak in.

Being open to experiences, and no longer drinking when uncomfortable or afraid has allowed me to see the value in myself. I now know why I am worth dating, why I deserve to have my time and energy respected, and have also become excited to encounter new people when I’m out.

Some of them have been drunk, some have also been sober, and I have never judged either of them. However, I have enjoyed every experience since becoming sober and no longer feel shame in loudly proclaiming my sobriety. I told my therapist I wanted to make sobriety attractive, even if I am the only one in that headspace in the bar.

So far I think I have found a way to make sobriety hot, or at least, less awkward.