For most of my adult life, social connection meant long lunches, dinners in the trendiest restaurants, parties with curated playlists and flowing wine – often ending in late night dancing. I built friendships in those spaces – over clinking glasses and shared desserts, at big group tables and birthday gatherings. For years, that was my normal.
But lately, I’ve noticed a shift – a sense that I might be outgrowing the social spaces that once felt like home. It’s been unsettling in a way that’s hard to articulate – but I’m going to give it a try.
It wasn’t one moment that triggered this – more a slow realisation. I was listening to the audio version of the book: I Haven’t Been Entirely Honest With You by Miranda Hart (thank you to Otherwise Kate for the recommendation), and at the same time I’d been wrestling with a thought:
Why don’t I enjoy big group dinners the way I used to?
There was a time when I loved the buzz of conversation and the restaurant energy. But these days, any time one is suggested, I feel apprehensive. Sometimes even stressed. If I’m completely honest, I often even find myself looking for reasons not to go.
I’d been sitting with that discomfort for a while – not sure what had changed, only that something had. More than “post covid”, more than “just ageing” – something deeper in this self discovery I’ve been going through.
Listening to the audiobook, Miranda said something about how when people speak at your funeral, they rarely talk about your achievements. They talk about who you were, the reasons you were loved.
As she elaborated further, she said:
Being seen and accepted without judgement is a fundamental human need.
I paused the audiobook and sat with that.
The Reasons We’re Loved
What are the reasons I am loved?
Not for what I’ve done, but for who I am?
I thought about it, and I realised I wasn’t sure how to answer that question for myself.
It’s confronting to sit with, especially when you’ve spent most of your life tying your worth to doing, achieving, proving.
So – naturally, I asked ChatGPT.
And this is what it said:
You’re loved because you’re real and authentic, and people feel safe around you. You’re loyal and dependable, the kind of person others know they can count on. You make people feel seen, valued, and understood. Your warmth and humour bring lightness, while your resilience and generosity inspire those around you. Most of all, you’re loved because you allow people to be themselves — and that’s a rare and beautiful gift.
🫣 Well, thanks ChatGPT – that’s lovely. But most of what we’ve been talking about is my mission with Nostos Nest, so of course it would come back with those kinds of words.
Still… I couldn’t help wondering:
What if it’s true?
The truth is, some of my friends have mainly known the version of me that showed up at parties, bars, and big dinners – the performing version. I hope they’ve seen more than that… but I don’t really know.
What I do know is that since I’ve slowed down on partying – and especially since I quit alcohol – the friendships that remain strongest are the ones where we both know the real reasons we’re loved. The ones where we’ve seen and accepted each other beyond the performance.
The others have naturally drifted.
And it’s made me think: this is something we don’t often do in friendships – tell each other the reasons we are loved. Especially when so much of our time together is preoccupied with restaurants, drinks, and surface-level chatter – in conversations broken up by interruptions from wait staff, or discussing what’s on the wine list.
But maybe we should? If being seen and accepted is a fundamental human need, wouldn’t it be nice if we told each other what we see and love about each more often?
Outgrowing Social Spaces
And so it clicked. Maybe it’s not just a change in taste or energy.
Maybe I’m craving connection in more honest ways.
Those restaurants, group tables, and beautifully styled bars gave me plenty of good memories. But looking back, I can see they were places where I often slipped into performance – showing up as the confident, sociable version of myself, even when I didn’t always feel that way inside. Alcohol certainly helped.
The version of me I’m learning to love now – the one who’s softer, still healing, and values depth over sparkle – doesn’t thrive in those settings.
So it isn’t less connection I want. It’s more authentic connection. The kind where I can show up without the mask.
Because maybe when you outgrow the mask, you also outgrow the spaces that rewarded it.
When I started asking myself who I really am – and who I want to be – I realised some of the ways I used to connect no longer feel like a match. It’s not that I’ve stopped caring about my friends – far from it. But I’ve found myself less drawn to certain settings, especially big group dinners and lively bars. These days, they don’t energise me any more – they drain me.
Maybe it’s midlife.
Maybe it’s the burnout I went through.
Maybe it’s because I stopped drinking and started paying closer attention to what actually feels good – physically, emotionally, energetically.
Probably it’s a combination of all of those things.
Whatever the reason, I’ve discovered that the environments I used to enjoy don’t quite fit anymore. I still value connection, but I want it on different terms now – slower, softer, more present. I want to be around people who see me as I am now, not who I was fifteen years ago in heels and my sparkliest party outfit, performing confidence I didn’t always feel.
Seeing Old Spaces Through New Eyes
As I started noticing this shift, I also began seeing those spaces differently.
These days, when I walk past a beautifully styled bar or restaurant, instead of feeling drawn to it – I sometimes feel a sense of detachment. Not from the people – I still love people – but from the performance of it all.
The lighting, the interiors, the curated menus – they feel like nothing more than beautiful packaging. For a long time, I didn’t question it. But now, I sometimes do.
It reminds me of how alcohol is marketed – stylish, inviting, symbolic of celebration – even when it’s quietly numbing you. And because I’ve quit drinking, I see it more clearly now. I’m not saying those moments weren’t real. I had some wonderful nights in those places. But I’ve changed. And now I see the environment through different eyes.
It’s not judgement. It’s just awareness. A sense that the setting no longer reflects who I am – or how I want to connect.
Letting Go Without Guilt
What I’m realising is that I’ve outgrown certain scripts where connection meant loud spaces and shared bottles, where everyone talked but no one really heard.
I still say yes to the occasional dinner. I still laugh, still love. But I don’t force myself to find joy in things that no longer feel nourishing.
These days, I crave something quieter. A one-on-one walk. A conversation that wanders. In a space where I don’t feel like I’m stepping back into a version of myself I’ve outgrown.
It’s not that what came before was fake – it’s just that I’m not that woman anymore. And I’m not trying to get back to her, either.
Final Thoughts
Miranda’s words keep echoing:
Being seen and accepted without judgement is a fundamental human need.
I don’t want to wait until a eulogy to know the reasons I’m loved. For me, it’s about presence over performance – about being remembered for thoughtfulness, care, and honesty, not for how well I played a part.
If you’ve felt this quiet midlife shift – away from the social spaces that once defined your friendships – you’re not alone. Maybe the invitations don’t hold the same appeal. Maybe you’ve felt a mismatch between the way you connect now and how you used to.
It’s ok to change. It’s ok to outgrow the spaces – and the social roles – that once defined you.
So perhaps the better question to ask is this:
Do the people in my life see who I’ve become – or just who I used to be?
If that resonates, try this:
- Ask yourself: What do I think people love about me – not what I do, but who I am?
- Ask someone you trust: What qualities do you see in me that stand out most?
- Reflect on which social spaces feel like masks… and which feel like home.
Because if our deepest need is to be seen and accepted as we are, then it makes sense that once we truly get to know ourselves, we outgrow places where we once felt we had to perform.
The mask served its purpose for a time, but the bravest thing we can do is set it down and step into spaces – and relationships – where our true selves can breathe.
Connection was never really about the noise, the setting, or the performance. It’s always been about acceptance. And we deserve that, now more than ever.
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