How MDMA changed my social life forever

It wasn't the chemical, it was the healing friendships I formed during my rave era

Photo by Yuri Arcurs on Canva.

Let me tell you about the first time I tried MDMA.

But actually, back then, we called it “e,” and it probably wasn’t pure MDMA. The pill I took might have contained other ingredients, and I didn’t know what. Or I might have pretended I didn’t know what, and it might have been meth.

It was January, 1998. I was living in Cobourg, Ontario, a small town east of Toronto. I had recently graduated from journalism school and landed a job as a reporter at the Cobourg Daily Star. It was a great professional opportunity, but outside of work, life felt empty.

Small town loneliness

I didn’t know anyone in town, and the solitude weighed on me. My apartment, a small space perched above a garage on a farm on the outskirts of town, felt isolating. The view was a scrubby field, where a lone pony sometimes grazed. My days off were painfully boring: yoga videos (VHS!) in the living room, and big city newspapers at the local Tim Hortons. I was lonely in a way I hadn’t experienced before.

The loneliness pressed closer as winter settled in. But I was only an hour from Toronto, where I had friends. And one guy I knew from university, Theo,* invited me to the city for a night out — a rave, he called it. The word felt foreign to me, conjuring chaotic images of large crowds, flashing lights and loud music, none of which were really my thing.

The call of the big city

I hesitated, but my need for connection trumped my reservations. I packed an overnight bag, hopped into my old Volvo (standard transmission!), and pulled onto the blustery highway, heading toward the city.

Following a (paper!) map, I met Theo at his friend Penny’s* place. I didn’t know her, but she warmly invited me into her home, which she shared with her brother Dan* and his girlfriend, Tilde*.

It was early evening, and raves don’t get going ‘til after midnight. So the five of us hung out, talking and eating. Eventually, we got ready to go as a team, with music pumping. It was a ritual, I later learned, called a pre-party.

Some sparkly foreshadowing

“Are you sure that’s what you want to wear?” Tilde asked, jujing her voluminous hair as the departure hour approached. “Would you like to borrow something from my closet?”

Her wardrobe overflowed with pretty things, but I declined. I was sure I wanted to wear what I was wearing: Loose jeans, black T-shirt, and chunky black boots. No jewellery. No makeup. This was how I dressed for nightclubs, hoping to avoid the attention of drunk men. And to me, a rave was nightclub-adjacent.

Meanwhile, Tilde excitedly adorned herself with a silvery, shimmery something, and as she dabbed glitter gel on her brow bones, she explained that at raves, people tend to dress in bright colours, sparkly fabrics, and playful jewellery. Eye-catching outfits are a contribution to the vibe, she said, and a generous way to entertain other party goers.

But I had no idea what she was talking about. I decided to stick with my nondescript outfit. Still, smiling, she insisted on loaning me a pair of sparkly blue sunglasses to add to my outfit. I stuck them in my pocket.

Theo and I had talked about e on the phone (a landline!) in the days leading up to that night. I was curious — fascinated, even — but unsure if I would partake in that aspect of the rave experience. The idea of taking a drug felt like stepping into unknown territory.

I was 27. While I’d had a few puffs of weed in my undergrad years, I still thought of myself as someone who wouldn’t do that kind of thing. In my mind, all drugs (except weed) were equally dangerous, and people who used them were “druggies.” It was an identity thing, an internal line I doubted I would ever cross.

Stepping into the unknown

When we arrived at the party, a knot of tension in my gut began to tighten. The venue was a raw warehouse in an industrial park near the highway — a sprawling space with metal beams above and concrete floors below. Huge speakers defined a dance floor, which pulsed with bass beats that vibrated my whole body. Lights strobed and reflected off the crowd, strangers moving through a sea of sound.

As the music thrummed, Theo gestured for us to follow him to a darker corner of the party. He held out a tiny pill he’d bought from someone he knew well. Tilde stood next to me, radiating reassurance. I felt a little of her confidence penetrate my hardened response to the idea of “doing drugs.” With a deep breath, I placed the pill on my tongue and swallowed it down with a swig of water, hoping for the best.

Observing from the outside

While my friends mingled with people they knew from past raves, I escaped to the “chill-out room” — a quieter spot with less pounding bass. I found a wall to sit against and observed the action, retreating into the comfort of my newspaper reporter persona at the edge of the action. If I’d had a notebook on me, I would have taken notes.

Soon, a guy sat down next to me. We struck up an easy conversation. He was a few years younger than me, and was wearing ear jewellery that made his earlobes very large. I don’t remember his name, but he was soft spoken and sweet. We had a nice conversation until Tilde came to check on me.

“Are you feeling it yet?” she said, squatting near us and smiling wide.

“I don’t think so,” I said.

“Well, maybe you need to dance,” she replied. “Sometimes that helps.” She took me by the hand.

My new friend agreed. “You should definitely dance.”

I introduced him to Tilde, and the three of us moved to the edge of the dance floor. Soon I was moving in the rhythm of the music and feeling the glow of new friendship.

Making connections on the dance floor

At the time, I thought I was simply having a good time, swept up in big city energy after months of small town existence. But now, with hindsight, I recognize the signs: the ease with which I made new friends, the heightened sense of connection, and the softened edges of my anxiety. I was high.

I felt optimistic, extroverted, and accepted. I wanted to participate, rather than just observe. I wanted to be right in the middle of this experience, rather than sticking to the sidelines.

That’s what MDMA does — it opens an inner door, quiets doubts, and makes room for the simple joy of being with others. In that moment, I wasn’t analyzing or questioning; I wasn’t protecting myself. I was just there, fully present.

High, safe, and seen

Lights glowed brighter, and even past midnight, I felt energized. I could walk straight, talk sensibly, and think clearly. Why would anyone ever drink alcohol, I wondered. (I’m still wondering it.)

Raves follow their own kind of rhythm, and by this time, the dance floor was packed, a body of bodies moving together under multicoloured lights. The headlining DJ was about to take over, and the collective mood was pure joy.

The crowd didn’t feel like a mass of strangers anymore; instead, there was a connection, an unspoken understanding among us. With my friends nearby, I found I could actually make eye contact with random people around me on the dance floor. They didn’t get in my space. Nor did they look me up and down. They smiled, maybe gave a thumbs up, and just kept dancing. We weren’t together, but we were together.

Photo by Mark Angelo Sampan on Canva.

I distinctly remember how surprising that was to me. I stood there, wide-eyed, suddenly understanding why Tilde had asked if I really wanted to wear a black T-shirt to this party. I began to realize that raves — and the whole etiquette of a party where people were using e — was radically different from that of alcohol-fuelled nightclubs and concerts I’d always associated with dancing.

Safety is social, not chemical

Here, I felt safe. As a woman. In a crowd. On a dance floor. In a raw warehouse. By the highway. And I was high on drugs. But I still felt very much like me — just with more space inside, and more social energy to participate.

I realized: It wasn’t just the e. It was also the etiquette.

By this time, I wished I was wearing something feminine and colourful, like my friend. Her outfit wasn’t about attracting male attention; it was about embracing joy and beauty, for herself and for the energy of the room. “Next time, for sure," Tilde laughed, hugging me as we danced. "Next time, you’ll sparkle too.”

Physically, I felt warmth spreading through me, an almost weightless energy that carried me along in rhythm with the music. Emotionally, there was a growing sense of openness—a kind of trust in the people around me, that made me feel calm amidst the clamour.

The men around me felt like potential friends, not possible threats. An incredibly magnetic woman I had just met was already my friend.

I danced and danced. The electronic music, which had previously mystified me as a genre, sounded amazing. For the first time, I didn’t wonder if I was a “good dancer.” In fact, it felt like I wasn’t the one doing the dancing. Sound was meeting my body, and it was dancing me.

The afterparty: A dreamy blur

The rest of the night dissolved into a blur of music, lights, and introductions to new people. The sun was rising by the time Theo drove us back to Penny, Dan, and Tilde’s house, where I experienced what I later learned was a hallmark of rave culture: the afterparty.

Since the stimulating effects of e last up to eight hours, there wasn’t much sleeping going on that Sunday morning. The hosts transformed their living room into a space that was part dance floor, part cuddle puddle. People sprawled on couches or gathered in intimate groups on the floor, with conversation flowing freely.

There may have been refreshments—cool drinks, some fresh fruit to savour. Dan, a DJ, selected music with less bass and more melody, as if giving us space to process the night while still keeping us swaying to a shared beat.

I was drained but I didn’t care. My body vibrated with joy. I felt a euphoric happiness, the kind that comes from being with people who can see the true you. By the time the afterparty began to wind down, the night felt like a dream — one I didn’t want to wake from. But I had to work the next day. I slept for a few hours on my friend’s bed.

Vibrating all the way home

When I hopped in my Volvo to drive back to Cobourg, I was unconcerned about having crossed some invisible line into “druggie” territory.

“I made a friend.” I said to myself. “I made a friend!”

I placed those sparkly blue sunglasses on the seat beside me. I kept glancing at them, all the way along the highway. And when I pulled into the snowy driveway of my lonely little apartment, I was still smiling.

*Names have been changed.