It’s close to 11 pm when my best friend and I land in Tbilisi after a long flight. A part of us ached for a proper night’s sleep, but we still chose to head straight out into a local hangout spot and bar. It felt like four different worlds colliding, each with its own music. There are separate arenas – old classics in one, EDM in another, something else entirely somewhere in between. And then, the people – always the best part. There’s someone in full leather and chainmail, impossibly put together; groups of girlfriends moving between laughter and intense discussion; couples locked in each other’s gaze. It’s a little unhinged, but completely alive.
And then, the last time we were in Bodrum, in the middle of the night with rain pouring down, we still found our way to a music and dance club with cool Turkish beats and a live band in full swing. Later, we found ourselves dancing with a group of Turkish girls. However, we didn’t know their language, and they didn’t really know ours. But it doesn’t feel like anything is lost. The energy translates. Well, there’s something about nights like this, even when you’re exhausted. It can be chaotic, but that’s where it steals its fun.
It’s not like we only turn into this version of ourselves in a different country; we’ve done this in our own cities too - going out most weekend nights that stretch late, sometimes into the early hours of dawn, from our early 20s to now, these final stretches of our late 20s. And I’m not saying this like it’s a badge of honour, choosing to still live like this. If anything, it feels a little daring - to keep showing up for these nights even as work and responsibilities take over, and still manage to hold onto that small, flickering dimmer that keeps you going.
As you grow up, you realise the term 'party girl' remains stubbornly loaded. In your early 20s, it feels light, almost flattering - like you’re the one who brings the good vibes and energy with people telling you, “Oh, she’s so fun and easy to be around!” But as you edge into your late 20s, something in the gaze shifts – like this isn’t quite how you’re supposed to turn out. But why?
Usually, the same words – ‘life of the party,’ ‘she’s always on the dance floor,’ ‘she knows how to have fun’ – start to carry a different weight, depending on who’s saying them and when. I’ve noticed them slip into conversations where they don’t quite belong – when someone is trying to understand, or explain me to someone else. It stops being a passing remark and starts to feel like a defining detail, something that sits just slightly ahead of everything else I am.
However, this way of living (on weekends) is quietly recorded as unhealthy, avoidant, chaotic, or even tragic. The judgment is rarely direct. It doesn’t come as criticism so much as inference – a raised eyebrow, a slightly loaded joke, a kind of casual curiosity that feels less like interest and more like assessment. This shift happens regardless of whether a woman is thriving professionally, emotionally stable, empathetic, financially independent, or maintaining meaningful relationships. Fun, it seems, is where the line is drawn.
Because pleasure, when it is visible and repeated, still makes people uneasy – particularly when it belongs to women. There is an expectation that enjoyment should either be productive or restrained. It should lead somewhere, build something, or at the very least remain proportionate. Too much of it, especially when it serves no obvious purpose, begins to look like excess and is unnecessary.
Even when clubbing is deeply tied to music, fashion, and art – particularly within subcultures with rich histories – it’s rarely recognised as a legitimate or meaningful form of engagement. But take the roots of techno and house, born out of Black and queer communities in cities like Detroit and Chicago. Clubs like The Warehouse, where Frankie Knuckles played, were spaces of belonging, escape, and identity. Or Studio 54 in New York City, which was a defining moment for fashion, art, and celebrity culture in the late ’70s. Personally, you may end up having some of the most honest, connective conversations on night metros, in club bathrooms, or brought together by music.
If you think people who keep up this kind of life have it easy, I wish it were that simple. There’s always that push and pull – the quiet dread of a Monday waiting on the other side, meetings lined up, deadlines looming, your feet still aching from the night before. And yet, we still choose it. Because on paper, nothing about life has shifted – you work, you show up, you hold your relationships together, you move through the world like everyone else. The nights out don’t replace anything. They’re not a substitute for anything missing – they’re simply a part of a life that is otherwise quite intact.
But we all work hard – jobs, responsibilities, everything - because let’s be honest, going out isn’t some easy, throwaway thing. If anything, it’s a privilege to be able to do it. Drinks at a nice bar with good people cost a fortune, and being able to afford (on our own) that comes from the same time, money, and energy we’re constantly pouring into our work. Maybe we know how to have a life that can hold both structure and spontaneity without collapsing under the weight of either?
And then there’s the long-standing idea of the ‘party woman’ - how easily she’s cast as frivolous, excessive, somehow lacking seriousness. It’s a label that sticks more sharply to women who enjoy nightlife, who like being seen, who take up space without apology. And that’s when it starts to feel like it’s not really about going out at all.
You see it play out in moments like the scrutiny around Sophie Turner during her split from her then-husband, Joe Jonas - when images of her out with friends, having drinks, were quickly folded into a narrative about what kind of mother she must be. The media went on to call her a ‘bad mum’ when she was seen ‘downing shots at a bar’. Of course, none of us knows the reality of their relationship. But it can’t be that doing a few shots automatically renders someone a ‘bad mother’. Shouldn’t it be okay for a 27-year-old woman – who also happens to be a mother - to step out, enjoy herself, knowing her kids are safe with their dad? Is simply stepping out in public and having a drink with friends enough to mark a woman as somehow lacking as a mother?
There is an unspoken belief, still, that a woman’s life should move in a certain direction over time. That there are phases, and that those phases should close neatly behind her. Going out, staying out, being visibly immersed in nightlife – these are understood as temporary behaviours, ones that belong to a particular age, a particular version of the self that is meant to evolve into something more contained. It’s telling how quickly a woman’s social life becomes evidence against her, and that it can somehow undo everything else she is.
Perhaps the more useful question is why we remain so intent on misunderstanding her. This isn’t new, and it’s unlikely to disappear – but neither is she. The so-called party girl continues to exist on her own terms: showing up, managing work and responsibilities, and still choosing a life that feels full, even if it doesn’t always look neatly put together from the outside…
