A night that felt like a scene from Palm Royale and turned itself into a story.
Some nights don’t feel planned.
They feel placed.
My best friend Sonja flew in from Texas, the kind of friend who has known every version of you:
before the pivots,
before the bravery,
before the becoming.
I live in Florida now, but Texas is still stitched into my bones. There’s a certain ease that comes with being understood without explanation, and that’s what she carries with her, a familiarity that feels like home and a southern accent that I picked back up from hearing her voice again.
I met her when I was nineteen. I had no kids, no real responsibilities except to pay my own bills and put myself through college, just big dreams and bigger faith. She, meanwhile, was already raising a toddler — a season I couldn’t understand then but find myself living in now. It’s funny how life loops back around. How roles shift. How you grow into chapters your friends once survived.
And somehow, all these years later, we’re still meeting each other exactly where we are.
We drove along the ocean with nowhere to be. Windows down. Music low. Palm shadows stretching across the asphalt like they were keeping time for us. And then…instinct. Pure and immediate.
“Look at the clock tower,” I told her, pointing toward the iconic one on Palm Beach Island that looks like it belongs in a painting.
I pulled over just long enough to hear the ocean sing . Then something in me shifted. I wanted her to feel Palm Beach the way I first did… the glitz, the glam, the sparkle that doesn’t apologize for being beautiful. So I took us down Worth Avenue to see the Christmas tree at Tiffany’s, still lit, still shimmering, even on January 7th, long after the world had packed up its holiday spirit.
She noticed the Bentleys and Rolls-Royces. We glimpsed people upstairs in an art gallery — silhouettes of wealth, privilege, maybe even a billionaire or two moving through some private event. She didn’t realize we’d crossed the bridge or stepped onto an island that operates on its own frequency. A place set apart.
None of it struck her the way I thought it would. And then I remembered the show Palm Royale, my comfort show, my aesthetic bible, and how I used to sneak away to this adorable hotel on my lunch breaks back when I sold luxury Audis in West Palm Beach.
Minutes later, guided by intuition or nostalgia or both, we were stepping into The Colony Hotel…pink after dark, glowing softly, as if it had been waiting for us.
There are places that host you…
and places that enter the memory with you.
The Colony is the latter.
Inside, time loosened its grip. Laughter echoed against walls that felt alive with stories. Palm leaves framed every doorway like punctuation marks in a sentence that didn’t need finishing. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t rushed. It was composed — the way elegance always is.
We ordered a Grasshopper (my inner Maxine made her wish) and a Moscow Mule (for Sonja) — though if we’re being honest, that drink deserves a rename. Russian Spy has a better ring to it. I’ll take creative credit for that one. 🍸
We sat, we talked, we lingered — the kind of lingering that doesn’t check the time because the moment itself feels complete.
And then it struck me: the atmosphere wasn’t familiar because I’d been here before…
It was familiar because it felt cinematic.
The night carried the same polished irreverence, glamour, and quiet drama that defines Palm Royale — a world where style isn’t decoration, it’s language. Where presence is power. Where women don’t ask for permission to take up space.
That’s what made the night unforgettable.
Not the drinks.
Not the destination.
But the feeling of being exactly where you were meant to be — with someone who reminds you who you’ve always been.
There we were: two Texas girls dancing our way through Palm Beach with my little daughter, Azalea — my sweet Zaza flower — trailing her own kind of magic behind her. The night was so wonderfully random that I was wearing pink feathered house slippers, floating around as if I truly belonged in the 60s beside Maxine Simmons herself.
We lounged under the night sky on the Business & Pleasure floral sunbeds — the same brand whose entire beach collection I tote to Peanut Island on Sundays. Everything felt soft, nostalgic, a little rebellious… and completely right.
Some cities sharpen you.
Some soften you.
But Palm Beach does something rarer:
It reflects you back to yourself… polished, intentional, and fully awake.
We didn’t plan the night.
We didn’t need to.
Because the best stories never start with an itinerary.
They start with intuition… and the courage to follow it.
—
Written by Jenna Quinter
Founder, TheSelfMadeBabe.com
Palm Beach–based lifestyle & editorial creator
SAG-Eligible | Period-piece aesthetic