It’s events season again; or should I say still? After a long day at work, I stood in front of my walk-in closet, staring blankly at the rows of beautiful, neatly hung outfits and colourful shoes lined up like an army ready for battle. All I had to do was choose a look. Just one more decision in a day filled with dozens of them. “Just pick a dress”, I told myself, while running my fingers over the tempting textures of silk and cashmere trying to psyche myself into a night out I wasn’t sure I had the energy for. But as I contemplated what to wear, an unfamiliar wave of anxiety crashed over me. Which version of me was I dressing for tonight? The effortless socialite? The PR professional? The woman who really, truly just wanted to be in bed by nine?

Sometimes checking my calendar feels like opening Pandora’s Box – you know it’s going to be bad, but you do it anyway. It’s as if past me secretly hates now me, or as if she was on a power trip, gleefully cramming in meetings, events and commitments like some kind of twisted endurance challenge. Honestly, what did I ever do to her?

Tonight she booked me in for three events. Three obligations. Three different versions of myself that need to show up. I could already hear the conversations, the made-up emotions, the “Hi babes!” I could even predict the food that would be served (it is
always something truffle, something caviar and something burrata). But deep down, all I wanted was to be home, read my kids a bedtime story and curl up with my Kindle.

Being in luxury PR, I naturally thrive on this. On being everywhere, doing everything, meeting new people saying ‘yes’ without even considering no. On showing up for people, being present, being available and being the person who never lets anyone down. Nowadays, I find that somewhere along the way, I started burning myself at both ends. The act of giving – of being there – started to take more than I was ready to give.

Tonight, I found myself torn between two extremes: the compulsion to be everything to everyone and the quiet, desperate need for stillness. I am craving alone time with my
thoughts or a book to take me away into a world of fantasy.

I have never been one to be crippled by anxiety, I never let hesitation or exhaustion win. Lately, I feel it creeping in. The weight of commitments, the invisible debt of RSVP’ing ‘yes’ too often, the sinking feeling that I am always on my way somewhere or desperately trying to make up for lost time.

I am the person who can effortlessly glide from one event to another, designer bag in hand, heels clicking, never missing a beat. But I also want to be the person who listens to the voice in her head that whispers, stay home, rest, breathe. So where is the balance? How do we reconcile the desire to give, to support, to show up, with the aching need to just be? In a world where the events you’re invited to define your social status.

I don’t have the answer yet. Maybe it starts with admitting that we are allowed to take a step back. That we are not endless wells of energy and time. That sometimes, saying ‘no’ is an act of self-preservation, not selfishness. And tonight, for the first time, I listen. I apologise to the unworn outfits. I send my shy cancellation messages, close my wardrobe doors, and exhale. The world will go on without me tonight. The parties will be fine. The conversations will happen. The truffle will be eaten. And I will be here choosing myself for once. Wrapped in a blanket instead of small talk, swapping the heels with fluffy socks, sipping water instead of bubbly. No forced smiles – just me, my book, and a night that finally belongs to me. Just this once. Or maybe not.

Lead image supplied

From Harper’s Bazaar Arabia’s March 2025 issue.