on doing things (like going to music festivals) solo.
There’s something powerful about being your own company, meeting your own needs, taking yourself out on dates.
My city announced a brand new music festival earlier this year. I was elated — I’m not exactly the festival type, but there were a few artists I was really interested in seeing and I loved that Connecticut’s capital city (which is not known for having very much to offer) was doing something cool. I talked about it for months, telling my partner and friends about it and imagining us all going together.
Except by the time the show rolled around, I no longer had a partner and no friends were available to go with me.
But I had been looking forward to it for months. I had put it on my summer manifesto. So I bought myself a ticket.
One solo ticket. Part of me was sad to be going alone, and part of me was excited to be going alone.
It’s not the first time I’ve seen live music alone. In 2017, I bought a single ticket to see Ray LaMontagne in Providence. Because I was only getting one ticket, I could get a good spot right up front. When I got to my seat that night, the woman sitting next to me looked up as if she were expecting someone else to be coming behind me. “Anyone else coming?” she asked. “No, just me,” I replied. She was wide eyed and said, “I’ve never thought of going to a show alone.” I felt brave.
Earlier that same year, I went to see Trevor Hall on my own when I was living in Sydney. None of my international friends had any idea who he was, and so I went by myself. I got dressed up and took the train into the city and stood right up front and was mesmerized by his voice. Being there alone felt spiritual, personal, special.
There’s something about claiming sacred space all for yourself, with only your own needs to consider. I could take up space, stay in my own energy.
Being at the festival this weekend felt just like that — sacred and spiritual and special. Oddly enough, Trevor Hall was playing again. Again, I stood right up front and was mesmerized when his wife (a photographer and poet) and kids arrived right in front of me. He sang the song he’d dedicated to his sons to his sons, as they waved to him from the crowd. I felt inspired and happy and full.
Then Guster played, which brought me right back to singing along in the car with my older sister in high school. I recalled song lyrics that I didn’t even know I knew, and hearing everyone around me singing along with me felt communal and magical. Next up was The Head and the Heart, a band I loved a decade ago and who I saw in Providence with my little sister. I hadn’t listened to them much since then, but hearing them play was kind of like reuniting with an old friend. Dispatch played last, but by then it had gotten dark and my feet were sore and I made my way home slowly.
I don’t really drink alcohol anymore so I avoided the bar, opting instead for passion fruit juice and tacos. I felt clear headed and present and deeply myself. There had been a big thunderstorm earlier that afternoon so the sky was ominous and resulted in a mesmerizing sunset just as The Head and the Heart finished their set, which added to the magic of it all.
I stood there soaking it all in and my life felt bigger, fuller, more expansive. Would it have felt the same if I’d been there with a partner or friends? Maybe.
But there’s something powerful about
being your own company,
meeting your own needs,
taking yourself out on dates.
More of this, please.
Love this
I feel the magic of that night through your written words. Beautiful! Thank you for sharing.