The Night I’d Hyped Up All Week

(okay, this is a story that is a fictional version of something that actually happened in another realm of life)

But here's how it taught me to stay committed to the destination without making the journey miserable.

I want to tell you about a night that was meant to be fun — genuinely fun.

Not “networking fun.” Not “this will be good for me” fun.
Real fun. Life fun.

It’s a Friday night in Sydney. The kind where the air feels softer, the city looks prettier than it has any right to, and you can almost taste the possibility in the streets.

I’ve planned it properly too — which is rare. Tickets booked. Outfit chosen. Restaurant picked. The little dopamine hit of this is going to be a great night running through me all week.

The destination is clear: more joy, more play, more life.
I want nights like this to happen more often.

We meet at a busy little bar. Music is up just enough to make you feel cool and slightly deaf. Everyone’s doing that Sydney thing where they look relaxed but you can tell they’ve all thought about their outfit for seventeen minutes longer than they’ll admit.

I’m with people I like. People I want to be more myself around.

And for the first twenty minutes? It’s perfect.

Then… I start slipping.

It’s subtle at first. I’m not “drunk.” I’m not “anxious.” I’m just… off.

I say something I think is funny. It doesn’t land.
Not a dramatic silence, just a mild misfire.

Someone changes the subject quickly.
Not rude. Just… fast.

My brain clocked it though.

And the moment my brain clocks it, the lawyer wakes up.

I start over-scanning the room: faces, reactions, tone, pauses. I become an amateur detective of other people’s micro-expressions. I’m still standing there holding a drink, but I’ve basically stepped outside my own body to assess how I’m being perceived.

Then we move to dinner.

It’s a place I’d been excited about — the kind with small plates and big opinions. There’s candlelight. The vibe is “we’re adults enjoying our lives.” We order too much. We laugh. It should be easy.

But I can’t settle.

I’m half-listening, half-performing “normal.”
I’m nodding at the right moments. Smiling. Asking questions.

And inside my head?

“You’re being weird.”
“You’re too much.”
“You’ve ruined it.”
“This is why you don’t bother organising fun.”

It’s insane how quickly one slightly awkward moment becomes a whole identity verdict.

At some point I excuse myself to the bathroom and just stand in the stall for a minute like I’m buffering. No phone doom-scroll. No dramatic tears. Just… a hard reset.

I look in the mirror and think:

This is meant to be fun. This is meant to be my life. Why can’t I just enjoy it?

We finish dinner. We walk back into the night. People are laughing on the street. The city is alive. The moon is doing that annoying thing where it makes everything look cinematic.

And I’m stuck in my head.

The next morning I wake up with that flat feeling — not a hangover, a meaning-over.

The event is over, but the story begins:

“See? You can’t do fun.”
“You don’t belong.”
“You should stay small, it’s safer.”

And here’s the key: that story isn’t trying to find truth.

It’s trying to find comfort.

Because even painful beliefs are more familiar than the unknown.

Enter Byron Katie: “Is it true?”

This is where Byron Katie is the nanna I never had — gentle, direct, and completely uninterested in my drama.

So I put the thought on the table:

“Last night was a disaster.”

1. Is it true?
   No. It’s a mood dressed up as a fact.

What’s actually true is smaller:

• some moments felt awkward,

• I got self-conscious,

• I didn’t enjoy it as much as I wanted.

That isn’t a disaster. That’s a human night.

2. Can I absolutely know it’s true?
   “Everyone thought I was weird.”
   No. I can’t absolutely know that. That’s mind-reading — and mind-reading is not evidence.

3. How do I react when I believe that thought?
   I withdraw. I cancel plans. I stop initiating. I start calling it “being busy.”
   Not because I’m busy — because I’m protecting myself.

4. Who would I be without that thought?
   Lighter. Present. Curious.
   I’d see the night as a rep, not a verdict.

That’s the difference between living and performing.

Enter Daniel Chidiac: “Stop letting everything affect you.”

Daniel doesn’t ask me to pretend it was amazing. (I've almost completed his audiobook, and it's really tremendous).

He just refuses to let one imperfect night become a life sentence.

Instead of:
“That night proves I’m bad at fun.”

He’d have me say:
“That night gave me data.”

Data like:

• I need quieter settings to warm up socially.

• I do better when I’m not hungry/tired before I arrive.

• I spiral when I start scanning for approval.

• I enjoy fun more when it’s lower-stakes and more frequent.

Fun isn’t a personality trait.

Fun is a practice.

And my brain? It needs receipts.

The destination vs the journey (and how we sabotage ourselves)

This is the mistake we all make:

We say we want a destination:

• more joy

• more connection

• more adventure

• more confidence

But if the journey isn’t instantly enjoyable, we decide the destination isn’t for us.

That’s like going to the gym once, finding it hard, and concluding you’re “not a fitness person.”

No. You’re a person with a nervous system.

And nervous systems prefer familiar pain to unfamiliar possibility.

So the question becomes:

Can I stay committed to the destination without demanding the journey be perfect every time?

The New Possibilities Method (simple, repeatable, real)

1) Separate fact from story

Fact: some moments were awkward.
Story: I’m bad at fun.

Drop the story. Keep the fact.

2) Question the thought (Katie)

Is it true? Can I absolutely know it’s true?

If the answer isn’t a clean yes, it’s not truth — it’s a guess in costume.

3) Choose a more useful frame (Chidiac)

Not delusion. Just a better lens:

• “That was a rep.”

• “One night isn’t my identity.”

• “I’m learning what fun looks like for me.”

4) Take one action quickly

This matters most.

Because your brain is evidence-driven.

If you want a new belief, you need new receipts.

So I decide: I will try again within 7 days — smaller stakes.

Coffee with one person.
A low-key dinner.
A walk and a chat.

Not because I’m proving anything — because I’m practicing enjoyment.

How to enjoy the journey while staying committed

Here’s the punchline:

Enjoyment isn’t something you earn when you “get it right.”

Enjoyment is something you practice while you’re imperfect.

The people who have the most fun aren’t the ones who never feel awkward.

They’re the ones who feel awkward… and don’t turn it into a story about who they are.

They stay committed to the destination.

And they let the journey be messy.

A final question worth living with

If that night had been fun, I’d want more nights like it.

So here’s the real question:

What if the only thing standing between you and more joy is the story you tell yourself when it isn’t perfect?

What would happen if you decided something else is possible?

Not forever.
Just for this week.
Just long enough to take the next step — and give your brain new evidence to collect.