How sobriety helped me walk into a room full of strangers.

Last night I was invited to a party. One of those parties.

Wine flowing. Pearls. Polo shirts. Red-soled shoes that probably cost more than my rent.

It’s been quite a month: grief after losing my dog, getting knocked out sick, and facing the truth of a lifetime of undiagnosed ADHD. So when the invite came in, the answer was no. Not tonight. Not in the mood. Not my people.

But then, mid-afternoon, my friend—the hostess—texted me. “I got your favorite non-alcoholic beer, the hoppy one you love!” She remembered. That tiny, thoughtful gesture cracked something open in me. I knew I had to go. Just show up, make a cameo, smile, hug, Irish exit.

I stopped for flowers on the way to her house. I stood for a moment, eyeing the ten-dollar lilies. Safe. Polite. Then I saw the perfect choice: The thirty-five-dollar bouquet, all drama and color. She was loud, elegant, extra. My kind of vibe. I swiped the credit card I probably shouldn’t be using.

When I walked through the door, I handed over the bouquet. My friend lit up and placed them in a vase with deep joy. That moment? Worth it.

And then I stepped inside. And froze.

I didn’t know a single soul in the room. Not one. I’d expected to see the friends I'd met her through. Nope. Just clusters of strangers in tight little circles. Gentle clinks of wine glasses. Men in pastel blazers. Women in linen and Botox. The whole thing buzzed like a private club I didn’t ask to join.

For two seconds, I thought, What the f*ck have I done to myself? I considered walking out the way I came in. And then—deep breath. Roll the shoulders back. I’ve got me.

That’s the power of recovery.

 
I no longer need to melt into a drink just to feel like I belong. I no longer need to dilute myself to fit in. I’ve done enough shrinking for a lifetime. Plus, I looked like a sober, sassy Frida Kahlo, and I wasn't going to waste the look by going home. Strappy black heels, a hot-pink, golden-thread-silk skirt from Mexico. Black top with deep cleavage. Lava stones around my neck and serpent rings around my fingers. A solid vibe.

At first, I sat alone at the kitchen bar, eating my plate of food while the party swirled around me.

Beside me, a man—owner of a hotel chain—laughed about feeling “broke” lately because of some investments falling flat. I smiled. For him, broke probably meant a million off the table. For me, broke meant feeling the financial stretch of self-funding a new company from scratch, with no safety net but my own belief.

But I wasn’t embarrassed. Not even a little. I sat there knowing I’ll talk about this moment one day from a completely different vantage point. Because I’m not stuck. I’m just in it. And I’m moving.

Then came the birthday moment. My friend, the hostess, told the group, “I haven’t seen Pamela since her big birthday this year!” Without missing a beat, I struck a pose. Hand in the air. Hip popped. “The big 5-0, baby!” She blushed. “I wasn’t going to say the number.”

I smiled. “Are you kidding? I own every wrinkle. Every story. Every damn year." And just like that, the room softened. Laughter. Nods. Women exhaled. Like they’d been waiting for someone to give them permission to show up as they really are. Fully formed. No shrinking.

I left the party with two powerful women’s numbers and real invitations to sit down and talk more about what I’m building. They asked for lunch.

I smiled as I peeled off my clothes back home. Because I was proud of me. I had walked into that room grounded. Clear. Sober. And that old edge I used to numb away—the awkwardness, the anxiety, the not-enoughness—it rose for a breath... and then fell away.

Sobriety did that.

My recovery did that.

That night, I wasn’t hiding behind a glass or trying to impress anyone. I was wearing my sobriety like the boldest accessory in the room. Quiet power. Sharp clarity. Fully present. That’s the deep yes I gave myself a few years ago. It’s the yes that rebuilt me. The yes that keeps me sober. The yes that keeps me proud (and a little edgy and loud.)

If you’re still waiting for your yes, babe, know: it’s not lost. It’s right there. Waiting for you to reach for it. It's never, ever too late.