What I Learned About Social Skills While Drunk

I am a woman in South Korea, approaching my forties, working at a large corporation.

I studied engineering, and most of the people I work with are men. In male-dominated organizations, women are noticed not for being gentle or warm, but for being confident, tough, and resilient. One of the most visible markers of that toughness is the ability to drink. When a female celebrity is rumored to have downed ten bottles of soju in one night, the public reacts with astonishment, admiration, even applause.

AI Generated (A woman with soju)

Among Korean women who can drink, there is a familiar exchange. When asked, “Are you good with alcohol?” answering “Yes, I drink well” feels oddly aggressive. So instead, we often say, “Maybe two or three glasses.” It is a transparent half-lie, just enough modesty to smooth the moment, just enough ambiguity to stay socially acceptable. Saying “just one glass,” on the other hand, is a polite request to not be pressured at all. (Or depending on the relationship, a promise of a dramatic reversal later.)

For Korean women, there is no shame in not drinking. But being told that you do drink well is usually received as praise. Drinking well signals more than physical tolerance; it implies social competence. It suggests that you know how to belong. As someone who can drink, I never found that praise offensive.

At some point, though, I began to confuse professional competence with drinking ability. I started to wonder if I was compensating for perceived shortcomings at work by being good at alcohol using it as proof that I was still holding my place, still relevant, still capable. Not that I could actually drink ten bottles. But perhaps I didn’t need to.

One morning, after blacking out and spending hours steeped in regret, I called a friend to talk it through. After listening quietly, she told me not to repeat the mistakes we made in our twenties. She was genuinely worried. I know what it means for a woman to make an alcohol-related mistake at work. I know how little room there is for error. And yet, in that moment, I realized something else: I could say I would drink less, but I could not say I would quit.

Because being invited for drinks, being included at the table — had become one way I protected my dignity at work. My visibility. My place.

Remaining in a company as a woman often means exaggerating certain parts of yourself while concealing others. Being able to drink was the easiest proof to offer. It instantly communicated strength, sociability, and ease the kind of person others want on their team.

But when I begin to clear away the space alcohol once occupied, what remains is simply me. Intelligence measured by professional skill. Humanity revealed without a glass in hand. Someday, even intelligence may slow and yield to accumulated experience. Until then, I want to prove myself not through intoxication, but through presence and attitude. Becoming someone who no longer needs alcohol to justify her place at work that is, for me, the most realistic form of growth.