Party With Purpose

One of my earliest childhood memories involves playing hide-and-go-seek in a funeral parlor with my cousins. I remember hiding behind the Grandfather clock at the bottom of the stairs of Collins Funeral Home with my cousin while the sounds of chatter and people praying the rosary filled the air that distinctly smelled of lilies. I also remember sitting between my two great aunts on a loveseat tucked in the room's corner, both of them wiping their tears with embroidered hankies, and feeling comfortable just being in the space with them, with my patent leather Mary Janes dangling from the edge of the couch.

And I remember being sad when it was time to leave and my father laughing when I asked how soon we could come back for another wake. And I certainly didn't know it at four years old, but those memories would play a significant role in helping me understand the power of purposeful socialization in recovery many years later. Shout out to Great Aunt Agatha, whose wake it was.

Somewhere after the age of 4, my socializing became less about the purpose and more about obligation and optics. Birthday parties were infused with insecurity and being left out or unchosen. School dances were a source of anxiety and weeks of strategizing to find a date. Weddings were a sad reminder of my singlehood and the opportunity to pretend everything was fine because I spent a shit ton of money on a new dress. Family events and holidays were a collection of broken promises to myself, boundaries that never got communicated or held, and scenes that usually ended in tears, upset, and resentment.

And alcohol. So many occasions were fueled by consuming a substance that would only amplify the inferno of disconnection in my soul.

And yet I also believed it was The Thing that would allow me to find what I was desperately hoping to gain by forcing myself repeatedly to participate in parties, gatherings, and festivities with the desperate hope of finding a meaningful connection.

Recovery and sobriety didn't magically shift this. I still sometimes experience the pain of loneliness even when I am in a room full of people. I still long for moments of ease and belonging. I pine for purposeful gatherings and think back to that experience of being four years old at the funeral home and remember what it felt like in my body to connect with others. It was so meaningful it became a memory I can recall with vivid and specific detail.

Priya Parker writes in her book The Art Of Gathering: How We Meet And Why It Matters, “When we don't examine the deeper assumptions behind why we gather, we end up skipping too quickly to replicating old, staid formats of gathering. And we forgo the possibility of creating something memorable and even transformative."

For me, this is something recovery continues to enforce. My interactions with people and the occasions of celebrating, mourning, sharing a conversation, or even holding silence together can be meaningful and transformative. In Priya's words, I do not want to forgo the possibility! I do not want to let the chance of magic and mystery and reciprocity slip by for the sake of putting in appearances or checking something off a list.

This space of intentionality isn't always easy to navigate. It's made me take a long and hard look at where I spend my energy and how I want to spend my energy. It has meant saying no to social gatherings that I would love to be at, but I know I will be emotionally drained on the other side. It has meant learning and practicing how to set boundaries and sometimes fumbling through it.

It has meant taking my time to discern my limitations and speak new techniques with courage. I’ll RSVP with new honesty:

"I can't make it to your baby shower, and I really want to celebrate you and this special time in your life. Can we find time for the two of us to connect over tea?"

"I'm so excited about coming to Sunday dinner and seeing the family, and I'm going to need to leave by 8 pm."

I find, over and over, that my affinity for connection and transformative encounters start with my authenticity. When I can be present with purpose, there is room for that 4-year-old in Mary Janes to show up and fully receive the occasion.

So here's to parties, my friend. Here's to potlucks and showers and backyard BBQs. Here's to weddings and wakes and funerals. Here's to Sunday dinner and spaghetti night. Here's to coffee and tea dates and sitting side-by-side watching TV.

Here's to connection with intention and purpose.

I love you,

Anne Marie