I went to the club because I was trying to feel alive again.

After everything went dark, I found myself drawn to places that looked like the opposite of how I felt inside. The club was dark too—but not in the same way. It was filled with flashing lights, loud music, movement, laughter. Life. It was like stepping into a contradiction: darkness that didn’t feel empty.

And maybe that’s why I kept going.

Because something in me was reaching. Reaching for light, for sound, for proof that life was still happening—even if I didn’t fully feel part of it yet. I didn’t have the words for it at the time, but now I see it more clearly:

I wasn’t just going out.
I was chasing life, I was chasing light, I was chasing movement! Wow!

In a space where nobody knew my story, I could just exist. I could move my body how I wanted. I could disappear into the crowd or feel seen for a moment without being known. There was a strange safety in that—being surrounded, but not exposed.

The lights felt symbolic.
Flashes in the dark.
Like reminders: it isn’t all dark. It isn’t all over.

Even if I was still carrying what happened… even if I was still healing… there was a part of me that refused to stay in that darkness completely.

And that part of me led me to the dance floor.

Not because I was okay.
But because I wanted to be.

And maybe that matters just as much.