Burning Man, Without the Rose-Tinted Glasses

(Not counting my little mushroom experiment, lol.)

Before my trip, I kept hearing praise for Burning Man. People called it “life-changing.” For me, it wasn’t that. It was an interesting experience—one I don’t regret for a second. I’m genuinely glad I went; I’d wanted it for years. But it didn’t rearrange my soul. It simply showed me a different kind of week I could spend on Earth.

What many people go to Burning Man for—freedom, dissolution of boundaries, a hall pass from ordinary life—I’d already given myself long before the desert. A lot of folks there drink and use drugs. That’s not my interest anymore. I’ve tried what I wanted to try in my life; I don’t shy away from experience, and I don’t live under the weight of other people’s judgment. So the “playground of indulgence” aspect just didn’t hold a charge for me.

Yes, some walk around naked. It’s a perfect example of something nobody wouldn’t do at the grocery store or at their 9–5. But I’ve already tried that too. I’ve spent time in Cap d’Agde, the nudist town in France. I’ve been to swinger clubs and swinger parties. Parties, alcohol, drugs—my life has had plenty of those chapters. I don’t need the desert to unlock that door.

What did interest me was the living experiment itself: surviving a week in the desert with no modern comforts, sleeping in a tent, and dealing with dust that sneaks into everything you own like glitter’s grittier, meaner cousin. I wanted to see the art—those whimsical, impossible sculptures that appear like mirages on the playa. And, most of all, I wanted to witness the burn. The burning of the Man was the one thing I absolutely had to see. That part was the most electrifying—and yes, it made the whole week worth it.