When Netflix released Members Only: Palm Beach, I expected another glossy reality series filled with designer handbags, champagne lunches and wealthy women arguing over social status. What I didn’t expect was to spend the entire series thinking, “This could be Hillcrest.”

The premise is simple. Five women navigate the complicated social hierarchy of Palm Beach, where old money clashes with new money, friendships are often transactional, and reputation is everything. Before long, viewers learn the unspoken rules of belonging. Never show your boobs and your knees at the same time. Never wear the same dress twice. Never risk being blacklisted.

It sounds ridiculous until you realise every affluent community has its own unwritten rulebook.

Hillcrest may not have exclusive country clubs overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, but it certainly has its own social hierarchy. Ours just plays out at charity lunches, networking breakfasts, school fundraisers, business events and community gatherings. The rules aren’t written down anywhere, yet everyone somehow knows them. Dress a certain way. Support the right people. Be seen at the right events. Like the right Facebook posts. Don’t question the unofficial leaders. Above all else, don’t upset the women who have appointed themselves the gatekeepers of local society.

Every town has its familiar cast of characters, and Hillcrest is no different.

There’s the polished CEO who commands every stage she can find; she’s authored books, delivered inspirational talks while creating the impression that she’s the woman every ambitious business owner should aspire to become.

Then there’s the philanthropist influencer who appears to have mastered the art of attaching herself to anyone who might elevate her own profile, effortlessly moving from one influential friendship to the next while, in her selfless efforts to do good in the community, wearing a loud outfit that makes sure you know how important she is.

We all know the socialite who is forever chasing invitations, convinced that sitting at the right table somehow validates her worth. No one really knows what she does exactly but she is just everywhere, having to be the center of attention.

Of course, no community would be complete without the self-appointed ambassador of kindness. She’s the MC who reminds everyone that women should support women, yet somehow manages to use her microphone to take subtle swipes at those she quietly sees as competition, all while stealing their business from under them given half a chance

Then there’s the local musician who has become part of the furniture. Every pub books her because she’s familiar. In her own mind she’s a superstar, but the rest of the town quietly wonders whether it’s time to reinvent herself before its too late. Like so many of the characters in this social ecosystem, perception and reality don’t always perform the same tune. 

And finally, there’s the church wife who proudly brands herself as a successful entrepreneur despite leaving behind a trail of ventures that never quite worked out, yet carries herself with such unwavering confidence that you’d think she wasn’t riding the coat-tails of her husband.

Before anyone becomes defensive, these aren’t individuals. They’re archetypes. You’ll find versions of them in Hillcrest, Umhlanga, Ballito, Johannesburg, Cape Town, London, and, judging by this series, Palm Beach. Different names, different wardrobes, same personalities.

The irony is that while everyone appears desperate to climb the social ladder, the only cast member who genuinely stood out to me was Romina Ustayev. She wasn’t trying to be the queen of Palm Beach. She wasn’t obsessed with impressing everyone around her. She simply came across as authentic, comfortable in her own skin and refreshingly uninterested in playing a game that everyone else seemed determined to win.

That authenticity highlighted something uncomfortable about the rest of the show. Watching successful, intelligent, grown women desperately seeking acceptance, or women who openly gossip about one another, was surprisingly sad. These aren’t teenagers navigating the politics of high school. These are accomplished adults with families, businesses and careers, yet so much emotional energy is spent worrying about whether they’re invited, accepted or spoken about favourably by people who don’t appear to genuinely like each other.

Perhaps that’s what struck me most about Members Only: Palm Beach. Beneath the luxury, designer labels and immaculate homes is an exhausting cycle of performance. Everyone is carefully managing an image. Everyone is protecting a reputation. Everyone is terrified of being blacklisted by a group that seems incapable of offering genuine friendship in return.

The older I get, the less appealing that lifestyle becomes. I don’t want to attend events simply because I’m expected to. I don’t want to carefully curate my friendships based on who might benefit me. I don’t want to perform for approval or worry about fitting into a social circle built on appearances instead of authenticity.

If that’s what high society is about, I genuinely want no part of it.

The biggest lesson Members Only: Palm Beach taught me wasn’t about wealth or status. It was that the people with the greatest freedom are usually the ones who stop seeking validation altogether. They wear the dress twice. They speak to everyone. They don’t calculate every friendship as a networking opportunity, and they don’t measure their worth by invitations or Instagram photographs.

Every town has its own “Members Only” club. Mine just happens to be in Hillcrest. Yours is probably somewhere close to home too.

My advice is simple. Stop auditioning for membership. Be authentic. Build genuine friendships. Support people because you want to, not because they’re socially useful. In the end, popularity fades, trends change, and today’s queen bee is eventually replaced.

Authenticity, however, never goes out of fashion.