Booked & Busy

There’s a particular kind of silence that settles over a city on a Friday night, just as the party crowds begin to buzz and heels click in unison like a ritualistic drumbeat. Somewhere in the distance, champagne corks fly and laughter spills out of blacked-out Ubers. And yet, there I am, cocooned in my flat, hair in a claw clip, robe loosely tied, sipping peppermint tea like it’s Dom Pérignon. Blissfully unbothered.

Once upon a time, I’d have been mid-manicure at 7pm, flitting between WhatsApp groups deciding where the night would begin and (hopefully) not end. There was a thrill in it, of course, choosing between sequinned or satin, lashes fluttering, perfume cloud settling. My little black dress would hang ready, those seductive red-bottom heels lined up like loyal foot soldiers. A martini in hand, a confident strut, and the night became a stage.

But something shifted. Not all at once, more like a gentle realisation that I wasn’t enjoying myself so much as performing enjoyment. The clubs were crowded, the music repetitive, and the conversations… let’s just say I wasn’t exactly debating Kantian ethics over the bassline. I found myself yearning for something richer, deeper, more me.

It turns out, peace is far more intoxicating than prosecco.

These days, I don’t fear missing out, I choose what I miss. And that’s not a loss, it’s a luxury. A luxury only afforded to a woman who knows herself, trusts her intuition, and isn’t defined by her visibility in the social scene. That’s the real flex.

There’s immense strength in being able to say, “No, thank you. I’m staying in tonight.” No fabricated excuse, no guilt. Just truth. Because I am the type of woman who enjoys her own company. Who lights candles not for Instagram, but because jasmine and sandalwood soothe my soul after a long day. Who does her skincare routine like a ceremony. Who journals. Who reads, actual books, not just captions.

And yes, I still adore slipping into that black dress. I still appreciate a dimly-lit bar with piano jazz in the background and an extra-dirty martini. But I indulge in those nights because I choose to, not because I’m afraid of being forgotten if I don’t.

I think we, as women, especially in our twenties, are sold a glittering lie. That our worth is tethered to our presence. To how many stories we’re tagged in, how many events we’re seen at, how many compliments we collect like currency. But high-value living isn’t about external validation. It’s about honouring your internal world enough to protect it.

Some weekends I work late, not because I have to, but because I want to build something meaningful. I invest in my body, not with punishment, but with movement that celebrates it. I make space for stillness. For solitude. For actual growth, not just glow-ups.

That doesn’t mean I’m boring. It means I’m discerning. I’m not opposed to fun, darling. I am the fun. I’m just selective with where I pour my energy, because energy is expensive, and I spend mine wisely. A high-value woman knows she doesn’t have to be everywhere to be everything.

And if that means I’m in my pyjamas by 9pm while the city parties on, I’m good with that. Because I no longer equate motion with progress. Some of the most powerful transformations happen in stillness.

If you’re reading this and you’ve ever felt like staying in made you dull, or less desirable, I invite you to flip that narrative. There is nothing more magnetic than a woman who is at home within herself. Who doesn’t need external noise to feel alive. Who doesn’t chase the night because she’s found light in her own presence.

So here’s to the homebodies in silk robes, to women who curate their lives with intention. May we never mistake noise for importance, and may we always find glamour in our quiet corners.

Because a high-value woman doesn’t follow the party. She is the event.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a date, with a novel, a facemask, and the kind of serenity no nightclub can offer.

And I wouldn’t miss it for the world.