People who drink to drown their sorrow should be told that

“People who drink to drown their sorrow should be told that sorrow knows how to swim.” Thus wrote Ann Landers, the voice of practical wisdom for millions, piercing through illusion with words both sharp and compassionate. In this saying she reveals a truth as ancient as humanity itself: that sorrow cannot be silenced by escape, nor buried beneath the waters of forgetfulness. When we seek to drown our grief in the cup of drink, in the haze of pleasure, or in the distraction of excess, sorrow rises again—stronger, sharper, more relentless. For sorrow is not a foe that can be slain by avoidance; it is a teacher that insists on being heard.

The wisdom of this quote lies in its paradox. Men believe that if they pour enough wine upon their wounds, the pain will vanish. Yet sorrow, unlike a stone, does not sink—it floats. It swims beside us, following wherever we flee. And when the drink has faded, when the distraction has passed, sorrow waits at the shore, ready to enter again. To attempt to drown grief is to fight the sea itself: the more we struggle against it, the more it pulls us into its depths. Sorrow knows how to swim.

History is filled with stories of men and women who sought to silence their anguish with drink, only to find themselves deeper in despair. Think of Ernest Hemingway, a writer of brilliance and fire, who turned often to alcohol to numb his inner battles. Yet no amount of liquor could silence the storms within him. His sorrow swam beside him always, and in the end, it claimed him. His tragedy stands as a somber monument to Landers’ truth: grief cannot be drowned—it must be faced.

And yet, there are also those who, instead of drowning their sorrow, learned to let it transform them. Consider Abraham Lincoln. Haunted by bouts of melancholy throughout his life, he did not seek to silence his pain in the cup. Instead, he wrestled with it, endured it, and from it drew a deep well of compassion and patience. The very sorrow that might have destroyed another became the source of his greatness. He learned what Landers’ words imply: to face sorrow with courage is to rob it of its power.

The ancients, too, spoke of this. The Stoics taught that fleeing from grief only binds us more tightly to it. Seneca declared that he who seeks escape from sorrow by indulgence multiplies his chains. True freedom comes not from drowning, but from confronting sorrow, understanding its message, and learning to carry it with dignity. For sorrow is not only an enemy—it can be a teacher, a purifier, a fire that tempers the steel of the soul.

From this wisdom flows a lesson for our own lives: do not flee your grief in the false refuge of drink, of distraction, or of numbness. When sorrow comes, meet it as one would meet a stern but necessary companion. Ask what it reveals, what it demands, what it teaches. In so doing, you will find that sorrow, once faced, begins to lose its sting. The attempt to drown it gives it strength; the choice to face it gives you strength.

Practical steps are clear. When the weight of grief presses upon you, resist the temptation to numb it with drink or indulgence. Instead, turn to healthier vessels: write, speak, pray, walk, or share your burden with a friend. Let sorrow breathe, and it will begin to release you. And when you see another reaching for the cup to silence their pain, remind them gently of Landers’ words: sorrow knows how to swim. Encourage them to face the water, not to flee it.

Thus, remember and carry this wisdom forward. “Sorrow knows how to swim.” Do not waste your strength in the vain effort to drown it. Rather, learn to float beside it, to let it teach you, and in time to let it pass. For those who endure sorrow with courage find within themselves a hidden light—one that no storm, no grief, no ocean can ever extinguish.