When the world opened back up, I expected a second roaring twenties. I wanted glitter and chaos, packed dance floors and makeup-streaked afterparties. I wanted to run straight back into the arms of the night like it had never left me.

But when I finally went out again… something was different.

People weren’t really dancing. They were filming. Everyone seemed more focused on how they looked than how they felt. Promoters weren’t chasing wild girls with vodka sodas, they were booking wellness activations and curating content-friendly corners. The clubs I used to love felt sterile. Safe. Like the volume had been turned down, but no one was brave enough to ask why.

At first, I thought maybe I had aged out of it. Like the party had quietly moved on without me, and I was the last one to realize. I started wondering if I should sell my mini skirts and try to become someone who spends Saturdays at farmers markets and Sundays doing hot yoga.

But I didn’t. I couldn’t. Because deep down, I still wanted to go out. I still wanted the music. The connection. The feeling.

And eventually, slowly, quietly, I started to notice something.

There was still magic. It just looked different now.

Mocktails weren’t some boring compromise, they actually tasted good. CBD drinks didn’t wreck me like tequila shots used to. I could still get that little buzz, that little lift, and then wake up the next morning. Go to brunch. Answer emails. Be a person.

And the DJs? They weren’t just spinning background music anymore. They were the heartbeat. I started paying attention to who was behind the booth. I started showing up for them. And I wasn’t alone. People were gathering, not just to party, but to feel something real. To be moved. To be together.

And maybe the most surprising part of all was that I found my people. Again.

Not at the biggest clubs or hyped-up openings, but in the small corners. The rooftop vinyl sets. The pop-up dance classes turned parties. The nostalgic, niche little nights where everyone in the room came for the same reason- to belong.

That’s what nightlife has become, at least for me. Not a race to be seen, but a slow, beautiful unraveling of who you are when no one’s watching. When the music hits just right and you remember that your body knows how to feel joy.

I still miss the madness sometimes. The careless, reckless version of going out where nothing mattered except the now. But I don’t long for it the same way. I think because I know now that the party isn’t over, it’s just grown up with me.

I still get dressed up. I still blast playlists when I’m doing my makeup. I still crave the alchemy of strangers and strobe lights. I still go out.

But now I go out to remember who I am. Not to run from myself.

I go out to feel connected. To be in it. Not to get lost, but to be found.

Because the party is still going, it’s just found a new rhythm.

And so have I.