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The first note hit and I knew I wasn't at a typical gala anymore.
There's a specific electricity when a room fills with women who actually belong there—when no one is apologizing for taking up space or qualifying their presence. This year's Fall Gala had that energy in spades, and honestly? It was overdue.
The New York Times covered it, but reading about it and being there are two different things. From the moment I walked in, there was this hum—conversations happening at full volume, champagne flutes raised without that performative restraint you usually see at these events. Women were hugging each other like they'd known each other for years. Politicians next to painters next to poets, all figuring out how to lean into the same microphone.
The keynote speaker—and I don't say this lightly—actually made me think. No platitudes about "breaking barriers" or whatever phrase gets recycled every year. She talked about the ugly parts: the times supporting other women felt impossible, the jealousy that creeps up when someone else gets the spotlight you wanted. Then she pivoted to what that honesty actually costs, and how every win she'd celebrated had someone else's handprint on it. The room got quiet in a way rooms rarely do.
Between the speeches, the performances absolutely carried. A cellist who made her instrument sound like it was recounting a lifetime of heartbreaks. A dancer—I'll remember her for weeks—whose solo said more about resilience than any speech could. She moved like gravity was a suggestion. The crowd didn't clap between pieces; we held our breath.
What stuck with me leaving: two women I didn't know trading contact info, already plotting collaboration. That's the thing about events like this. They're not really about the gala itself—they're about what happens in the parking lot afterward, the group chat that forms, the introductions that become partnerships. The energy doesn't stay in the ballroom.
Next year's gala already has a bar to clear. I suspect it'll happen.
