Issue #41: What a sober rave taught me about comfort zones

From ice-cold showers to dancing sober, is there value in embracing discomfort for discomfort's sake?

‘I’m having fun!’ I shouted to my friend, incredulously, over the pulsating notes of ‘We Are Your Friends’ by Justice vs. Simian. We were in the basement of a listed Georgian townhouse just off the Tottenham Court Road, both covered in sweat and high on dopamine. We were dancing like maniacs. 

The crowd around us looked like they’d stepped out of a boutique festival: tie dye and animal print; braided hair; denim cut-offs; crocheted halter necks. A few people were barefoot. A man dressed in what I can only describe as a feather-covered fetish vest leapt about like a member of the chorus line from Lord of the Dance. Another guy did the Running Man in a head to toe neon jumpsuit. The crowd danced with the tenacity of an alcohol-fuelled scene from Skins (or perhaps more aptly, Skins: The 10 Year Reunion). And yet, the only drinks a-flowing were artisan kombucha and cacao smoothies. 

I was at a sober rave, and accidentally having the best night out I’d had in months. Which, given my only cultural reference point for such events is the ‘Rainbow Rhythms’ scene in Peep Show, and given, also, my own self-identification as a female Mark Corrigan, was… surprising, to say the least. 

But this isn’t a newsletter about how I managed to bypass my entire personality for a night (although I’ll pop a link below to a piece I wrote about sober curiosity a few months ago). Despite my sober clearheadedness, there was an ineffable energy about the night that I think is best experienced for oneself rather than painfully broken down here in granular detail. What I do want to explore is why I ended up sober-raving in the first place.

How I ended up at a sober rave

At some point the previous Saturday, I’d asked my friend Radhika what her plans for the forthcoming weekend were, sort of hoping she’d want to get dinner somewhere. ‘Do you fancy going to this?’ she WhatsApp-ed me, sharing a link to something called ‘RISE AND SHINE Sober Saturday Night Party’. I read the message during an Uber journey home from another friend’s house. I was a couple of glasses of white wine down, and also in a strange mood, feeling a little jaded from a mostly-grey summer in London. Anyway, the two sides of my brain held an urgent meeting:

Me: That looks awful. You can’t dance sober. Don’t go!

Also Me: But if you don’t want to go… surely it’s something you should try? Because (logical argument drowned out by Uber driver’s KISS FM).

Me: But… comfort zone! Stay in your comfort zone!