I was 24, living in Wheeling, still figuring out what being on my own actually meant. I had a job, I had an apartment, and I had a routine that felt normal at the time, even if it wouldn’t hold up under much scrutiny.
Dan and I were out that night.
It was Thursday—what we called Flight Attendant Thursdays. United was right there, and the flight attendants in training would come into Hunter’s because they didn’t have to be up early on Fridays. It was always a good night. Busy, social, predictable.
I closed the place down like I usually did. Toward the end of the night, I was at the bar doing tequila shots with the bartender. That wasn’t unusual. It was just how the night ended.
When I left, I felt fine. I always felt fine. I always felt sober when I drank. I don’t think I ever questioned that. Doesn’t everyone feel that way?
I got on 53 and took the exit onto Dundee. That’s when I saw the lights ahead. At first it didn’t fully register, but as I got closer it became obvious—cars lined up, one by one, being pulled through. A checkpoint.
There was no way around it.
I remember thinking maybe I’d be fine. Maybe I’d get through it. I had gotten out of things before. There was still that part of me that believed I could somehow talk my way through it, or that it wouldn’t apply to me the same way it applied to everyone else.
When it was my turn, I pulled forward and rolled down the window. I was calm. Friendly. I made sure the officer knew that I understood he was just doing his job. That part of me—the people pleaser—was fully intact even then. If I could just be agreeable enough, respectful enough, maybe it would go differently.
It didn’t.
At some point I was asked to step out of the car. I remember doing the walk—one foot in front of the other—focused on getting it right, like if I concentrated hard enough it would change the outcome.
It didn’t.
That’s when it became real.
I didn’t know exactly what was going to happen next, but I knew I wasn’t leaving in my car. The rest of it shifted from a night out into something procedural. Directions, steps, being moved from one place to another. There wasn’t anything to argue or negotiate. It was already decided.
They took me in, and my car was towed. That part wasn’t optional. It didn’t matter that someone could have taken it home. That’s not how it worked.
I didn’t spend time in jail, but I was there long enough for the night to turn into morning. I was released around 5am.
Dan came to get me.
When we got back to my apartment, the first thing I did was make a drink.
There wasn’t a pause. There wasn’t a moment where I thought about it. It was just automatic.
Dan stayed for a while. We talked about what had happened, let it settle, passed the time until it felt like a normal day again.
At some point later, I called my parents.
That part felt worse than the arrest.
I still felt like a kid in that moment, even though I had my own place and my own life. My mom had co-signed my car, and I was paying her directly to protect her credit. That month, I couldn’t. Suddenly there were new costs—impound fees, legal fees, things I hadn’t planned for and couldn’t really afford.
All in, it came out to around $5,000. At 24, that might as well have been everything.
I lost my license for eight days. At the time, that felt like the biggest problem in the world. My job depended on it. My independence depended on it. Eight days felt like everything was on hold.
So I did exactly what I was supposed to do. I went to the classes. I completed the community service. I handled the court process. I checked every box that was put in front of me.
And then I went right back to my life.
That’s the part people expect to be different.
They expect that moment to change something.
It didn’t.
I kept drinking.
Every night.
Same bars. Same people. Same routine.
If anything, I just got better at managing it.
Making sure the car was parked.
Making sure I didn’t have to drive.
Solving the problem without actually changing anything.
At the time, it felt like I had handled it.
Looking back, it’s obvious I didn’t.
It wasn’t a wake-up call.
It was just… an interruption.
Today, it’s just part of being out, not the reason for it.