The early afternoon sun casts a warm glow outside my window as I sit in front of my laptop, watching the world move. I think about the way people live—with purpose, with intention. And yet, here I am, still figuring out which story to share, feeling the weight of so many thoughts swirling in my head.

Some days, I wish I could sleep without my mind racing. Other days, I long for a world where I could live without worries, without burdens. And then, there are moments like this—when I just want to feel free.

That’s when Burning Man comes to mind.

A small smile tugs at my lips. My heart stirs as memories flood in—the dust, the laughter, the nights that blurred into mornings, and the feeling of being completely, beautifully alive.

Burning Man changed me in ways I never expected. And it all started in 2010.

The Road to Black Rock City

I was living in San Francisco at the time, surrounded by a circle of friends who brought color into my life—Natalie (Nayo), Joanna (Joy), Erin, Sherry, and Al. We spent our nights in clubs, bars, and parties, talking for hours, smoking, getting lost in deep conversations. My roommates, Alison and her long-time partner Oona, along with Martha and Nayo, made the city feel like home.

One night, Al looked at me and said, “You need to go to Burning Man. You’ll find magic there.”

I remember scoffing at the idea. Magic? I knew what the word meant, but to me, it belonged in fairy tales, not real life.

But something inside me whispered, Go.

Getting a ticket wasn’t easy. The event was exclusive, and they screened attendees based on income and access. Fortunately, through Al, I connected with Fred, who had an extra ticket. I paid him and suddenly, I was going.

There was just one problem: I couldn’t afford to miss a whole week of classes. So, I settled for a compromise—driving up mid-week.

I borrowed a silver van from Tito Derrick, a family friend, and packed a few clothes and instant food. No one told me what to wear, so I brought what I had—a black hat and goggles.

A day before leaving, a friend texted me:

“Can you pick up my friend Danielle on the way?”

I agreed, not knowing this small decision would be part of the adventure.

At 3 AM on Wednesday, excitement coursed through me as I hit the road. Danielle and I navigated through the dark desert, nerves creeping in. Were we lost? The silence stretched between us.

Then, in the distance, a faint glow.

Black Rock City.

We had arrived.

Stepping Into Another World

The moment I entered Burning Man, I felt like Alice tumbling into Wonderland.

People roamed freely, some dressed in the most imaginative, outlandish outfits, others wearing nothing at all—yet somehow, it all felt natural. No judgment. No shame. Just pure expression.

I found my way to the Deaf Camp, my heartbeat quickening. When I saw familiar faces waiting for me, a wave of joy rushed over me. They helped me set up my tent, and just like that, I was home.

For the next few days, I danced until my legs ached, laughed until my stomach hurt, and let go of everything that tethered me to the outside world. There was no social media. No stress about money, rent, assignments. Just the present moment.

I drank. I tripped. I embraced the unknown.

I wandered through 500+ camps and workshops, discovering things I never imagined:

🌀 Sunrise yoga in the desert

🔥 Sand surfing on endless dunes

💫 Orgy domes and deep conversations on monogamy and polyamory

🎭 Massive art installations that seemed to breathe with life

I met people who changed me in a single conversation, yet I never asked for their names. It didn’t matter. We weren’t defined by who we were outside of Burning Man—we were simply souls connecting in the now.

The Temple and the Magic of Letting Go

One night, I stumbled upon The Temple—a breathtaking wooden structure, filled with handwritten letters, photographs, and memories people had left behind. It was sacred, built by those who believed in art, emotion, and the power of release.

The moment I stepped inside, something shifted.

A heavy silence hung in the air, thick with emotions I couldn’t name. I ran my fingers over the walls, tracing the words of strangers.

Some messages spoke of love. Others of heartbreak. Some were filled with hope. Others, regret.

And then, I thought of my mother.

I thought of how much I loved her.

I thought of how much I wished she could accept me as queer.

I thought of how much I longed for her to see me, to truly see me.

And I cried.

Not just for myself, but for every person who had ever felt unseen, unheard, unaccepted.

I closed my eyes and let it all go—just for that moment.

And for the first time in a long time, I felt light.

The Real Meaning of Magic

Al was right.

Magic isn’t about illusions.

It’s about possibility—the realization that we are free to create our own paths, that we have choices in how we live, love, and exist.

Burning Man showed me that freedom isn’t just about escaping responsibilities. It’s about stepping into who you truly are, without fear, without limits.

It’s about connection—the kind that doesn’t need names, labels, or expectations.

It’s about letting go of judgment, of ourselves and others, and simply being.

It’s about learning that love, in all its forms, is the closest thing we have to magic.

When I left Black Rock City, I knew I would never be the same.

Because once you taste true freedom, you can never forget it.

And once you see the magic, you can never unsee it.

Now, I Ask You…

Have you ever felt truly free? Have you ever stepped into a place where judgment fades, possibilities expand, and your soul feels weightless?

If you had the chance to experience that kind of magic, would you take it?

Or better yet—what’s stopping you?