One afternoon, we drove along the coast to a fireworks shop a couple of towns over. It was late in the year, the light low and dismal, with rain spattering the windshield. In a few days, it would be New Year’s Eve, and our small town would scatter to parties in bars, houses, nightclubs, and along the harbor. At midnight, there would be an amateur fireworks display on the roof of the old lido.
In the shop, some fireworks were displayed behind a glass-fronted cabinet. They had names like Stinging Bees, Vendetta, and Sky Breaker, each with a small laminated caption. One read, “One hundred shot roman candle firing high whistling bees.” Another said, “Twenty-five secs of time rain salutes. Noisy.”
Afterward, we went down to the vast, pebbled beach and watched the last flare of daylight on the horizon. I took a picture of my boyfriend, pale-faced in the drizzle. Then we sat in a chip shop, where two fish swam despondently in a small tank between a lighthouse, a submarine, and a burst of plastic foliage.
I don’t remember this period of my life in color. Looking back at photos from that time, I’m surprised to see the bright blue plastic chairs of the takeaway and the soft lemon of the beach light. I recall those days only as ashen, cold, and unspoken.
We were quiet the whole way home. It was my car, but my boyfriend drove, and he chose the songs on the stereo. I sat in the passenger seat, trying to remember how to make conversation. Outside, the night was filled with headlights, darkness, and rain. I thought about all the places I’d rather be spending these last days of the year: northern dance floors, California porches, or sitting alone at a bar in Tennessee—somewhere, anywhere, warmer and kinder than here.
I had already stayed far too long in the relationship. It was an old habit—sticking it out, soldiering on, reshaping myself a thousand times to become something close to what my partner wanted. I would be smaller, quieter, trimming the edges of my needs to make him happier. I didn’t need to drive my own car or play the songs I wanted; I could spend New Year’s Eve in his town, with his friends, sleep in his cold house under his thin sheets. I could bury my feelings 20,000 leagues deep. I could mistake these contortions for love.
New Year’s Eve started early in the evening—at someone’s house, a restaurant, or some pub or other. The night felt enormous then, huge and unfathomable, quite terrifying in its possibility. I was tired before it even began. Plans looped and crisscrossed, folding back on themselves. If we missed one friend, we found another, catching others as we moved from venue to venue. All the while, the wind whipped in off the sea, foul-tempered and wild.
The singer Aimee Mann has a line that has always summed up my feelings about fireworks: “When they light up our town I just think / What a waste of gunpowder and sky.” That night, I stood on the pavement and watched as they lit up the shore—high-whistling and noisy, trailing gold and glitter through the wet sky. As the New Year began, I turned my face to the mean wind, just to feel something.
Then the night pressed on, with dancing, drinking, and hard, determined revelry. It was early morning when we reached a party in someone’s half-renovated house, and later still when I found myself drinking bad red wine in a spare bedroom, stuck in an endless conversation with someone I barely knew and a coked-up TV producer from London.
After a while, a thought occurred to me: What if I just left? The TV producer was mid-sentence when I stood up and walked out of the room, down the stairs, past the living room where people were dancing, and the kitchen where my boyfriend stood laughing with his friends. Then out the front door, into the cool, sweet morning.
That New Year’s Day, I drove home alone.That morning, as I walked slowly home through the grey, empty streets, I felt my first quiet surge of liberation. A new thought dawned: you can leave the party, the town, the relationship. You can walk away from the big night out if it makes you feel small. We don’t always have to stay.
Frequently Asked Questions
FAQs My Big Night Out Walking Away from What Makes You Feel Small
Q What is My Big Night Out about
A Its about a moment of personal realizationoften at a social event like a house partywhere you understand you have the power to leave situations relationships or mindsets that diminish your selfworth
Q Is this just about leaving a party
A No not at all The party is a metaphor Its about recognizing and walking away from any pattern in your life that makes you feel smalllike a draining job a toxic friendship or your own negative selftalk
Q What are the main benefits of having this realization
A The key benefits are reclaiming your personal power setting healthier boundaries reducing anxiety and creating space for people and activities that truly align with your values and bring you joy
Q How do I know if something is making me feel small
A Pay attention to your feelings If you consistently feel drained insecure belittled or like you have to shrink your personality to fit in thats a strong sign Your body might feel tense or you may dread the interaction
Q I understand the idea but how do I actually do it Walking away feels scary
A Start small It doesnt have to be a dramatic exit It can be politely excusing yourself from a conversation saying no to an invitation or dedicating an hour to a hobby instead of peoplepleasing Each small walk away builds the muscle for bigger ones
Q What if the thing making me feel small is a longterm friendship or family
A This is more advanced and challenging Walking away here might not mean cutting them off completely It often looks like emotionally detaching setting firm boundaries limiting your time with them or changing how you respond to their behavior
Q Wont people think Im rude or flaky if I just leave
A This is a common fear You can be polite but firm Most people are less focused on you than you think Prioritizing your wellbeing is not rudeits necessary The right people will respect your boundaries
