Myrtle October

For much of my life, I believed being a good connector meant keeping the door open...

I shared introductions freely. I extended invitations widely. I tried not to leave anyone out. I offered access to my relationships without always asking what I might receive in return-and often without considering whether the people I connected were aligned with one another.

I thought that was generosity.

Sometimes it was. Other times, it was exhaustion disguised as altruism.

I was frequently the bright, bubbly person in the room: the one who kept the conversation moving, introduced people, filled uncomfortable silences, and tried to make everyone feel included. I cared deeply about supporting others and never wanted anyone to believe I had decided they were not important enough to belong.

But experience has taught me that discernment is not the same as determining another person's value.

Curating a room does not mean deciding who is worthy. It means deciding what a particular gathering needs.

That distinction has changed the way I host.

A Gathering Needs a Purpose

In The Art of Gathering, Priya Parker argues that meaningful gatherings begin with a clear, specific purpose-not with the menu, décor, venue, or familiar list of people we feel obligated to invite. Her work also describes "generous authority," a form of active hosting in which the host uses their authority for the good of the group by protecting, temporarily equalizing, and connecting guests.

That framework caused me to look honestly at my own history of bringing people together.

I realized I had spent years gathering people intuitively, but I had not always protected the purpose of the room.

I knew how to create an atmosphere. I understood aesthetics. I could select a location, create energy, and attract accomplished people. But I had not always applied the same intentionality to the guest list, the boundaries, and the behavior required once everyone arrived.

A mentor recently asked me a deceptively simple question:

What is the purpose? Otherwise, are you simply spending money?

Another trusted voice reminded me that the people in the room need to understand what they are coming to receive-and what they are being invited to contribute.

Those questions became part of the foundation for Champagne & Bourbon Bubbles: A Curated Afternoon of Connection, an intimate salon I am hosting on August 7 at Big Grove Tavern.

The purpose is not to fill a room.

The purpose is to curate one.

To me, curation is an act of stewardship. Every decision-from the guest list to the pace of the afternoon, the flow of conversation, the photography, and even the follow-up afterward-is made in service of the experience entrusted to me. The details matter because they shape how people feel, how they connect, and whether they leave believing their time together was meaningful.

Every Invitation Begins With a Conversation

Courtesy Is the First Conversation

One of the most overlooked aspects of any gathering happens long before guests arrive.

A thoughtful RSVP, responding to an email, returning a phone call, or simply acknowledging an invitation may seem like small acts of etiquette. I have come to see them differently.

They are the beginning of the relationship.

If meaningful conversation is the purpose of the gathering, then communication begins before the event itself.

When I don't hear back from someone after reaching out personally, I don't assume they are a bad person or that they lack value. I simply recognize that our communication styles-or perhaps our timing-may not be aligned for this particular experience.

For that reason, registration is the beginning of the invitation-not the end of it. Every invitation continues through conversation.

I intentionally take time to connect with each prospective guest because I want to understand more than their résumé or title. I want to understand who they are, what they're building, what matters to them, and how they might contribute to the experience of others in the room.

I hold myself to the very same standard.

Respect begins with responsiveness.

Meaningful gatherings begin with meaningful communication.

Before this gathering, I decided to connect personally with prospective guests by phone, email, or in person. I want to know more than a name and title. I want to understand what someone is building, what they care about, how they participate in the community, and what kind of energy they may bring into a shared space.

That process is not about interrogating people or ranking their accomplishments. It is about considering the chemistry of the room.

• Will this person listen as thoughtfully as they speak?
• Will they permit someone else's idea to breathe?
• Will they arrive only to promote themselves, or will they offer encouragement, wisdom, curiosity, or a valuable introduction?

A curated room is not built solely around status.

It is built around contribution.

That means an executive may stand beside an artist. A community elder may speak with an emerging creator. A business owner may discover common ground with an educator. People who might never meet through their usual professional circles can encounter one another without the pressure of performing their résumés.

Those possibilities do not happen automatically. Someone must create the conditions for them.

Protecting Guests Is Part of Hospitality

Privacy and discretion are central to the experience I am designing.

Senior executives, university leaders, business owners, creatives, and other visible professionals often move through environments where one careless photograph, misunderstood comment, or out-of-context moment can affect a reputation. I have long been trusted in certain rooms because I do not repeat private conversations, brag about personal access, or use someone's presence to elevate myself publicly.

I am bringing that same standard into my gathering.

There will be a designated photographer with clear instructions. Guests will not be encouraged to turn the afternoon into an uncontrolled social-media feed. Personal photographs and public posting must respect the privacy of the people present.

This is not about creating secrecy or making the gathering feel rigid. It is about creating enough safety for people to relax, think, and speak as human beings rather than representatives of their titles.

A boundary is not automatically unwelcoming.

Sometimes a boundary is what makes genuine welcome possible.

As Parker has written about "generous exclusion," intentionally drawing a temporary line can protect both the guests and the purpose of a gathering. "By closing the door, you create the room."

The Host Cannot Be Absent From the Gathering

I once thought the ideal host should be laid-back.

Choose the venue. Arrange the food. Open the door. Let adults take care of themselves.

But a host who abdicates authority does not create freedom. They often transfer authority to the loudest person, the most dominant personality, the person who drinks beyond their limits, or the guest who decides the gathering should become something entirely different.

Someone will shape the room.

The question is whether it will be the person responsible for its purpose.

I learned this lesson early.

When I was 16, I planned a birthday party, handled the arrangements, and even charged guests for entry. The room filled, but afterward the amount collected did not match what the gathering cost me-financially or emotionally. People treated the home like a playground. There were too many guests, too many problems, and too little protection for the person who had made the event possible.

Later, when I was entrusted with authority in the media, I again opened systems and opportunities to people I wanted to help. Some respected the access. Others ignored boundaries, disrupted operations, or behaved as though my generosity erased my authority.

Those experiences did not teach me to stop helping people.

"They taught me that generosity without stewardship eventually becomes vulnerability."

When a host needs to step away, a reliable person must temporarily carry the purpose and standards of the gathering. Expectations must also be clear for vendors, photographers, assistants, and guests. Otherwise, confusion will establish rules the host was afraid to name.

Protect, Equalize, and Connect

The three responsibilities of generous authority provide a useful framework for the salon I am creating.

Protect the guests

Protection includes more than physical safety.

It means protecting people from preventable embarrassment, unwanted exposure, aggressive self-promotion, domineering conversation, disruptive behavior, boredom, and an environment that has lost its purpose.

It also means being prepared to address a problem rather than expecting guests to manage it for me.

Temporarily equalize the guests

Most gatherings inherit a hierarchy before anyone enters.

Titles, wealth, public recognition, organizational rank, age, and professional influence can quietly determine who receives attention and who disappears into the background.

For this reason, I am reconsidering the usual dependence on titles and formal name tags. I want guests to discover one another through conversation rather than scan the room for the person with the most impressive position.

For a few hours, a CEO, creator, dean, entrepreneur, senior vice president, and community resident can meet first as people.

This does not erase anyone's accomplishments. It allows something more human to precede them.

Connect the guests

Connection is not accomplished by putting people in the same room and hoping for magic.

A host must make thoughtful introductions, design opportunities for conversation, notice who has been left alone, redirect someone who monopolizes attention, and keep the gathering connected to its stated purpose.

The event is not centered on passing out business cards. Still, what happens after the gathering matters. The introductions people anticipate, the follow-up conversations, and the relationships that might never have formed otherwise are essential parts of the value.

The conversation is the centerpiece. The hospitality creates the conditions around it.

Design Communicates Before the Host Speaks

Even the physical setting supports the purpose.

A large room, loud music, and an open dance floor naturally encourage movement, spectacle, and nonverbal interaction. That can be exactly right for a celebration designed around dancing.

A small room with limited attendance creates another kind of possibility.

For this salon, the environment is designed to support walking, talking, and listening. The food will be simple to enjoy while moving rather than colorful, dripping, or difficult to manage. The décor will be neutral, refined, and restrained-whites, ivories, champagne tones, and subtle metallic details rather than an overstated party environment.

There will not be rows of chairs that divide the room into speakers and spectators. There will not be a crowded arrangement of tables that traps people in fixed groups.

The physical space should quietly say:

Be present. Move with ease. Meet someone. Stay in the conversation.

The aesthetics matter-but only when they serve the purpose.

From Gladys Knight to a Different Kind of Stage

The original inspiration for this gathering was personal.

For years, I have sung songs associated with Gladys Knight, including "Midnight Train to Georgia," "Neither One of Us," and "If I Were Your Woman." Her music has accompanied different chapters of my life and represents a kind of elegance, emotional honesty, cultural memory, and endurance.

As I considered creating an experience around the time of her Champaign appearance, the vision gradually evolved from producing a large event and toward something more intimate.

I realized I did not need another stage.

I needed a room where the conversation itself could take center stage.

Leaving People Out-or Creating the Right Space?

The most difficult part of intentional gathering has been releasing the internal people-pleaser who wants to invite everyone.

I have had to accept that not every person is right for every room.

Someone may be intelligent, accomplished, likable, and valuable-and still not fit the purpose or chemistry of a particular gathering.

That is not a judgment against the person. It is a decision made in service of the guests who have trusted the host with their time, privacy, energy, and presence.

For too long, I interpreted exclusion as cruelty and inclusion as goodness.

Now I understand something more nuanced:

"When I invite people into a space, I become responsible for what I knowingly permit inside it."

I am not leaving people out because they lack value.

I am creating space for a specific kind of exchange.

The Beginning of an Intentional Practice

This inaugural salon represents more than a single afternoon.

It represents years of learning about generosity, access, authority, hospitality, trust, and the responsibility that comes with bringing people together.

What has changed is my understanding of stewardship.

I am learning to steward what has been entrusted to me-the relationships, the trust, the energy, the privacy, and the purpose every guest carries into a room. Stewardship, I have learned, is not about controlling people; it is about honoring the responsibility that comes with inviting them into a shared experience.

I still believe in generosity.

I still believe in inviting people across industries, generations, races, backgrounds, and social experiences to encounter one another.

But I no longer believe that openness requires the absence of boundaries.

The strongest communities are not always created by assembling the largest crowd. Sometimes they begin when a host has the courage to establish a clear purpose, choose carefully, protect generously, temporarily equalize, and connect intentionally.

Hospitality, I've discovered, is not the absence of boundaries.

It is the thoughtful presence of them.

I once believed the best host left every door open.

Today I understand that the best host knows which door to open, whom to welcome, and how to protect the experience once everyone has arrived.

People may forget what was served.

They may forget the flowers.

They may even forget the venue.

But they rarely forget how a thoughtfully curated room made them feel.

That is the room I intend to keep creating.

About the Author

Myrtle October is a Private Legacy Consultant and founder of Champagne & Bourbon Bubbles, where she curates intentional salons that bring together leaders, creatives, entrepreneurs, educators, and community builders through meaningful conversation and thoughtful hospitality. Her work explores the intersection of legacy, discretion, leadership, and the art of creating spaces where authentic relationships flourish.

Connect with Myrtle:

https://www.linkedin.com/in/myrtle-october-464064b4?utm_source=share_via&utm_content=profile&utm_medium=member_ios

Works Referenced

Parker, Priya. The Art of Gathering: How We Meet and Why It Matters.

I Showed Up Anyway

The day I realized courage doesn't always come with company.

There are moments in life that don't feel significant while you're living them. Then, years later, you look back and realize you were witnessing the beginning of a new version of yourself. This was one of those moments.

When I stood on that stage to speak at Elevate Your Voice, I wasn't a first-time speaker. I had spoken before. But this time was different. It was the first time my voice felt connected to something much deeper than the words I had prepared.

Ironically, the first thing people might notice if they watch the video isn't my message. It's my hair. Earlier that day, I had changed it.

At the time, I didn't think much about it. Looking back now, I realize it reflected exactly where I was emotionally. I was trying to become someone new while still wondering whether I belonged in the room.

I looked polished. Inside, I was still searching.

What the audience couldn't see was everything happening beyond the stage. The life I thought I was building was quietly unraveling.

Many of the people I expected to stand beside me emotionally weren't there in the ways I had hoped. That realization was painful. For a long time, I believed courage meant having people beside you who believed in your dreams as much as you did.

Life taught me something different. Sometimes they don't. And you still have to walk onto the stage.

When I watched this speech again years later, I didn't see a woman pretending to be confident. I saw a woman practicing courage. That distinction changed everything.

Even the story I shared during my presentation traces back to something that happened when I was in the ninth grade. I remember being attacked in a school hallway by three girls. Someone I considered a close friend disappeared when I needed support the most.

For years, I thought that memory was simply about bullying. Now I understand it differently. It was one of the earliest lessons in my life about what it means to keep standing when the people you expected to stand beside you are nowhere to be found.

That lesson repeated itself throughout adulthood in different forms.

• Different people.
• Different seasons.
• The same choice.

Would I keep showing up?

Eventually, I stopped asking who was coming with me. I started asking whether I was willing to show up for myself. That question transformed my life.

Today, my hair is different. My perspective is different. My understanding of success is different.

Success isn't simply standing on stages. Success is becoming the kind of woman who no longer needs permission, applause, or perfect circumstances before she honors her calling.

I've learned that resilience isn't loud. Sometimes resilience is quietly keeping the commitment you made to yourself after everyone else has gone home.

If you're reading this while navigating a season where relationships have shifted, expectations have fallen apart, or life no longer looks like the future you imagined, I hope you know this:

You are still allowed to become who you're meant to be. Even if you have to become her one brave decision at a time.

Because sometimes the greatest audience you'll ever win over... is yourself.