Clubbing Is My Self-Care, And Yes, It Works Better Than Bubble Baths

It was my birthday, 4 pm on a dull afternoon. I had no plans, no big guest list and certainly no one waiting to surprise me with balloons. I never really spoke to many people in school, so naturally, it was just me and my one friend. We ended up at a very questionable club with very questionable lighting, but the playlist? Impeccable. One mango shot later, and I realised something no wellness guru had ever managed to convince me of: clubbing is my self-care.

So, what do most people do for healing? They go for a walk. They meditate. They start running. Lovely. Admirable. And also, boring.

Me? I go clubbing.

Meditation, although wonderful for the soul, is far too much effort. You have to concentrate on your chakras, silence your thoughts, and watch your inhales and exhales. Meanwhile, one sway of my hips to Smack That and suddenly my life feels beautiful again.

Running or walking? Please. I live in Mumbai. We barely have roads to drive on, let alone run on. And I am a girl who thrives on her couch-potato lifestyle, sexy pyjamas, takeaway containers, and Netflix. This girl cannot jog more than 200 metres, but she can dance on a sticky club floor for five hours straight.

So allow me to prove my absurd but very convincing theory of nightlife as self-care. If you find yourself at a club at 10 pm twerking to Cardi B after reading this, don’t say I didn’t warn you.

The Vibe

Nothing, and I mean nothing, gives you better vibes than a dark room lit with lights, the DJ dropping your favourite track and the slow build of bass that makes you feel like the main character. And it’s not just the music. It’s the chaos, the group of strangers who scream-sing with you during the chorus like you’ve known them for decades. They’re part of the ritual.

When that main character arc stretches until 5 am, with you still dancing, laughing, still alive in the moment, that’s therapy. Yoga mats could never.

The Bathroom Squad

The bathroom in a club is a universe of its own. This is your OG hype squad. A stranger fixing your winged liner, another telling you your dress is actually iconic, someone else shoving lip gloss into your hand because “you deserve this”. Twenty minutes in a nightclub bathroom, and I am walking out blushing harder than any date ever made me.

The compliments roll in faster than any man has ever managed. “You’re stunning.” “Obsessed with your vibe.” “Marry me, please.” And yes, it’s fuelled by cocktails and perfume, but it’s pure, unfiltered joy. No therapy session has ever left me feeling so euphoric.

Getting Ready Is Half The Therapy

Self-care doesn’t start at the club door. It begins at home, when you stand in front of your wardrobe trying to figure out which version of yourself you want to unleash tonight. Is it sequins? Leather? Something dangerously uncomfortable but ridiculously hot?

And the mandatory pre-club mirror selfie becomes part of the therapy, proof that even before the lights, even before the crowd, you already felt beautiful.

The Alcohol Paradox

Now, let’s address the elephant in the room. Does clubbing always mean alcohol? Some people think so. And yes, one or two shots won’t kill you; sometimes, you even need that champagne shower moment to let loose. But here’s the truth: I’m practically a novice when it comes to drinking, and I intend to stay that way.

For me, it’s not the alcohol that heals. It’s the people, the music, the silly choreography to 2000s throwback songs, the satisfaction of screaming the bridge of a pop anthem with your arms in the air. The alcohol is background noise. The self-care lies in the sweat, the laughter, the rhythm of it all.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not shading pottery classes or self-care dates. They have their place. But so does dancing till sunrise in Goa. You have one life. How fruitful can it be if you never danced your way through it?

via GIPHY

Besides, clubbing always gives you stories. The kind of stories you retell years later,  how your shoe broke at 3 am, how you ended up eating dosas with strangers at sunrise, how that one night healed something in you without you even realising.

So no, my therapy doesn’t come with candles or journaling prompts. It comes with bad lighting, great songs and strangers who convince me I’m the hottest girl alive. Call it absurd, call it unhealthy, call it what you want. I call it healing.

And honestly? I wouldn’t have it any other way.

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