A skeptic at Burning Man: one night that changed my mind

One of the first things my husband told me when we met was how badly he wanted to go to Burning Man. I played it cool, as you do when you’re newly in love, and said, “Sure, one day.” Secretly, I hoped he’d forget. He didn’t. After much hemming and hawing (and twelve years of procrastinating), I finally gave in three years ago. And actually, it was pretty great. No, wonderful. I’ll even say this: if you ever get the chance to go, say yes, immediately. Don’t overthink it. Everyone should experience Burning Man once.

In my mind, Burning Man was a drug-fueled festival where supermodels strutted around in barely-there exotic clothing, taking drugs was a must, or you’d get laughed at, hugging everyone you crossed paths with was mandatory, and survival was completely up to you because this lunar-like land was 1,000 miles from civilization and the only way out was to fake a heart attack, which even then, you’d probably be screwed because their can’t possibly be medical supervision around, right? So you see, there was no way I was ever going. 

Except, I saw how important it was to my husband, and so, I relented. Our first “Burn” was 2023 — yes, the year of the great floods (more on that later).

In preparation, I watched every possible YouTube video (twice), read all the articles on the internet, and checked off every single item on the “Personal Survival Checklist” provided by the great people of Burning Man. “Duct Tape?” Sure. “An extensive first-aid kit?” Obviously. “Common sense, an open mind, a sense of humor, and a positive attitude?” Um, can I phone a friend? (which, actually, you can’t because there is zero cell service.) 

I did have fun planning the outfits. The YouTube videos taught me that supermodels exist, but they’re not the norm. So I went for it: sky-high boots, floral tights, a fringe vest, heart goggles, and all the glow. Amazon boxes stacked up. Suddenly, it was official.

After fifteen hours on the road, my husband and I rolled up with our rented trailer. Burning Man shimmered in the distance, and I exhaled. It was remote, but there’s actually a town just a few miles away with gas, cell service, and even pizza. We pulled to the side, duct taped every window on our car and trailer, and continued into the car line. 

As we waited, I took in the beat-up school buses, Sprinter vans, and rented Cruise America RVs. The energy was unlike anything I’ve felt; everyone so welcoming, so excited, so dang happy to be alive. Music blasted; people danced outside their cars; the costumes were mesmerizing. It was contagious.

We grabbed our tickets and welcome booklet at the box office and entered Black Rock City. As first-timers, we were invited to ring a gong and make dust angels in that famous playa sand. The greeters offered hugs, which, to my own surprise, I gladly accepted.

Finding a spot was easy, and we set up camp near a med tent (yes, they exist!) By then, the sun was setting, we pulled on our full regalia, lit up the bikes, and off we went.

There aren’t really words for riding onto the playa at night for the first time, but I’ll try to explain the best I can. Warm air, a soft breeze, silky dust, and a river of blinking bikes. Then the “mutant vehicles” glide by: a shark, a unicorn, a strobing T-rex. I don’t do drugs, but the world tilted anyway.

An older couple in a decked-out old-school carriage stopped and asked if I wanted a chocolate chip cookie. They pressed a somehow-still-warm one into my hand and said, “Welcome home.”

Off in the distance, I saw the Man, with gorgeous art pieces flickering between. We rode past a moon, a shimmering tree, a mechanical butterfly, a geodesic dome, dragons, jellyfish, and a huge pink bear. The art felt endless. I was euphoric, no substances required. 

We hopped off our bikes at each new installation; playing on the art piece, meditating, or simply standing there and taking it in.

My favorite stop was the Temple; a quiet, cathedral-sized structure where people sit in stillness to remember loved ones or just take a moment to breathe.

We wove in and out of camps where people hosted concerts, poured drinks, and set out cozy spots to rest. There were crafts, yummy food being passed around, pop-up yoga classes, and even a sauna. It was all completely free, everyone welcome. 

The people were all shapes, sizes, and ages. Most were dressed up; some weren’t, and that was fine. Different accents, different cultures, and none of it mattered. Everyone was accepting. I didn’t see a single fight or sloppy scene. It was the most beautiful, communal experience I’ve had. People handed me friendship bracelets, smiles, and light-up rings. 

I never once felt uncomfortable. Sure, there’s plenty of nudity, there are orgy tents, and drugs were around I’m sure, but I never felt pressured to do or be anything other than myself. 

Afer a full night of experiencing, we went to bed just before dawn. 

We woke the next morning to a greywater leak — a major playa no-no — and a gut feeling that after one beautiful, life-changing night, it was time to go. We packed our dusty bikes and rolled out three hours before (unknown to us at the time) the gates closed for flooding.

Leaving the playa under bruised clouds, one line from the BM survival checklist echoed: “Common sense, an open mind, a sense of humor, and a positive attitude.” If you do go, pack that above all (and goggles, face masks, plenty of string lights and bikes.) 

People say you need a few days at Burning Man to feel the magic. I don’t exactly disagree; we went back the next year with friends and stayed longer. For me, the heat, the dust, and RV living have a shelf life of a few days. But one night can be life-changing, and for some, it’s enough. Above all, if the chance comes, say yes, and let it change you.