Mad Beats at the Playa Wonderland - Burning Man 2024

I didn’t go to Burning Man to "find myself" or embark on some grand healing journey. I went because I’d spent the last eight months living through loss. It started with the death of someone close, followed by the slow decline of another—a journey that ended in Nevada after months of caregiving. Just when I thought grief couldn’t cut any deeper, I had to say goodbye to my 17-year-old dog, Luckie, two weeks after returning from the burn. When I arrived at Black Rock City, I was carrying emotional weight that felt impossible to put down. I didn’t go to escape it. I went because grief doesn’t take breaks, and if I was going to carry it, I figured I’d do it surrounded by music, fire, and people who know how to dance like it’s the end of the world.

4/20 and the Road to Nevada The day after I graduated—April 20, to be exact—I packed my car and headed straight to Nevada. The degree I’d worked so hard for felt like a blur because someone needed me. Their spouse was dying, and I was the one who could step in. I thought I understood grief after the recent loss of another loved one, but nothing could prepare me for what caregiving entails.

The next four months were a crash course in the quiet brutality of loss. Caregiving isn’t poetic or noble. It’s raw, relentless, and often thankless. I helped with things I never thought I’d face, all while trying to hold it together for someone else when I could barely keep myself afloat. Death doesn’t come all at once; it’s a slow dismantling. Watching someone slip away, piece by piece, changed me in ways I’m still unpacking.

When it was over, I left Nevada hollowed out, running on fumes, and asking myself, What now? I didn’t have an answer. I just drove.

The Dust Never Leaves You Burning Man doesn’t care about your backstory. It welcomes you, sure, but only on its terms. The dust gets into everything—your mouth, your hair, your clothes. It doesn’t ask permission, and I liked that. Every morning, I’d wake up, stretch out my aching body, and inhale the alkaline air like it was a challenge.

Food was basic: lentils, greens, and whatever protein I could get my hands on or scrape together. Not exactly the fuel of champions, but I lost a few pounds without even thinking about it. Dust biking became my workout, and at some point, I stopped noticing how tired I was. The desert has a way of stripping you down to what matters.

The Temple One morning, while everyone else was recovering from the chaos of the night before, I biked out to the Temple alone. The silence out there is its own kind of noise, and I sat with it, Sharpie in hand, not really sure what to do.

I thought about the past year: the weight of caregiving, the grief that seemed to multiply with every loss, and the rawness of saying goodbye to a pet that had followed me through nearly two decades of life.

I wrote their names on the wood, along with some messy, half-finished thoughts. Not for them. For me. I didn’t feel better afterward, but I felt real, which was enough.

Jamming Through the Desert Nights

By the time night rolled around, I was dead tired. But the music would start, and so would I. The music at Opulent Temple didn’t just play—it pulsed through you, leaving no room for anything but the beat. I danced under fire spinners and stars, letting the bass do what it does best: shake everything loose. One night, Diplo came through camp for a set. Another time, Jake Paul strolled through camp like he owned it. A few other recognizable faces popped up, too. Nobody really cared, though. The playa strips away all the usual markers of status. The nights at Burning Man are their own world. Out there, we’re all just people covered in dust, looking for something—connection, maybe, or a moment to forget.

Hard Work, Fatigue, and Joy During the day, the homies and I worked our asses off for camp—cleaning, hauling, organizing, building and occasionally just standing there wondering what the hell we were doing. At night, er danced until our legs felt like they might give out, then collapsed into bed only to wake up and do it all over again. This routine of work, play, and exhaustion somehow balanced me out. I woke up every morning achy, tired, and weirdly content.

Watching the Man Burn

The night of the Man burn is chaos and magic all rolled into one. Thousands of people circling the flames, the air thick with dust and energy. It’s loud and wild, but also quiet in that strange way only Burning Man can be—like everyone’s shouting but also having deeply personal moments inside their own heads. I stood there, watching the Man crumble into ash, the heat on my face, and I felt… nothing and everything at the same time. the entire year leading up to that moment sat in my chest like a stone, but the flames felt like they were carving out space around it. Not removing it, just making room for something else.

That’s when she appeared. A tiny little angel of a person, wearing wings that were probably covered in as much dust as I was, and holding a deck of cards. She smiled at me, sweet and almost eerily calm. Without saying a word, she held out the deck and gestured for me to pick one.

I reached out, dusted-off hands, and pulled a card. The flames reflected off the shiny surface as I turned it over. It read: “I follow the rhythm of my heart.”

I stared at it for what felt like forever. It wasn’t some big epiphany moment—it was more like a little nudge, like the universe had whispered, “Hey, you’re doing okay. Keep going.”

The little angel nodded like she knew exactly what I needed to hear, then disappeared back into the crowd. And I just stood there, card in hand, as the Man burned into nothingness.

Leaving the Playa By the end of the burn, I wasn’t “healed.” That’s not how it works. But I wasn’t dragging grief behind me like a ball and chain anymore. The desert took some of the weight, and I let it. Burning Man left me feeling connected—to myself, to strangers, to something bigger than all of this. It doesn't offer solutions. It offers a dusty, chaotic stage where you figure it out for yourself.

If there’s one thing I learned, it’s this: Life doesn’t stop because you’re sad. You bike through the dust, cry in the Temple, dance through the night, and wake up the next morning ready to do it all over again, one step at a time.

And that's enough.