I watch my dog chase squirrels on the TV. A cup of orange juice with no tequila added sweats in my hand. Leftovers are being revived in the air fryer. The squirrels run off-screen, and my dog circles the room, searching. This time last year, I would’ve panic-invited myself to a party or rallied my friends to hit the bar—anything to not be alone at home. The sound of my own laughter echoes back to me in the quiet of my living room.

I do not like concerts. I have spent my early twenties—a.k.a. the college portion—going to concerts, shabby house shows, underground music features, and courtyards that paired middle-aged musicians with local beer. My ears have been angled toward jazz, acoustic indie sessions, synth pop, weird millennial rap, high school punk, garage rock, cover bands, groovy alternative, soulful R&B, and even an EDM violinist. But none of it made me smile as much as being in a quiet room has. Maybe that sounds insane.

I have been lying to myself for years. It’s time to love my deepest and most sincere self, and she is someone who would rather listen to produced songs on the radio than in a live setting. I end up standing in a crowd wondering why I’m there when I could be listening to the same songs at home, without the extra sweaty bodies and overpriced drinks. And I could sit down. It wasn’t until I went to a concert alone that I realized I just don’t like it.

Sav, you went to a concert alone? Do you not have any friends? Are you a weird loner who types at her keyboard all day and thinks about how flat her butt is getting with each passing minute?

Yes. But I also have friends. It just happened to be a concert that they were all busy or out of town during. I didn’t want to be at home alone, because I felt like I should be embracing my twenties and seizing the moment and carpe the diem and whatever other bullshit marketing companies say to make young people spend more money. So I bought a twenty-dollar ticket to see a band whose songs I vaguely recognized. I spent the week leading up to the concert listening to the setlist like I was studying for the SATs. I was determined to have a good time. No mumbling lyrics or pretending to sway along to a guitar riff that I didn’t know was coming. I would do everything in my power to make this concert experience a good one. I was going to become a live music enthusiast. I would be normal.

I got to the venue an hour early by accident. I looked hot, thinking maybe the lead singer or the guitarist would see me and fall madly in love. (I will always be a fourteen-year-old fanfiction dreamer at heart.) Then the band would write two songs about the mysterious girl in the crowd, and I would be eternalized in music forever: the modern Mona Lisa.

I sat in my car, attempting to convince myself not to go home. I mean, it was a whole twenty dollars. I had to at least give it a shot. Otherwise, I was wasting a week of coffee. 

The band was lovely. The venue was okay. And the crowd was full of very sweet people. I just didn’t enjoy myself.

We get it. How many more times are you going to say it?

Well, annoying audience members as many times as it takes for people to understand that their enjoyment does not have to be publicly measured to matter.

While I’m dismantling preconceived personal beliefs, I don’t actually like coffee. I drink it because I like the fun seasonal twists local coffee shops put on a latte. I like the feel of a coffee cup in my hand. The image of a girl who drinks coffee is addictive. The coffee itself doesn’t wake me up or inspire my taste buds.

Anyways, I started the concert with my knees kissing the lip of the stage. I could feel the drops of sweat as they flew from the damp brows of the musicians. I heard the whispers they passed between each other. I was in the thick of the crowd, clapping to the rhythms and singing the chorus with the best of them. I was having an okay time. The band was great, and the girls around me were including me in their dancing. But I didn’t feel the way they looked.

Others had come alone or with boyfriends that didn’t give a shit about the music. In fact, the fans were mostly lesbians, as they had made known to me before, which was surprising since the band was solely mid-thirties white men. They had pierced ears, wore baggy jeans, and danced with a feminine sway to their hips, holding their guitars tenderly as one would with a newborn baby—if that baby produced a sick riff every time it was hugged.

I have this habit of envisioning the person people think I am and then trying to become her against my own will. It’s an exhausting battle. And one that I always lose.

I left the front and navigated my way to the back, settling into an empty space. The closest person was an arm’s length away. Over here, it was mostly couples that wanted to enjoy their expensive drinks without fear of being elbowed. With a wide view of the lights and smoke, I could see the band better. I could dance and move without fear of elbowing someone or flicking my hair into their face. I wasn’t trying to be one of them—the fans and the music lovers. I was in my own world, experiencing the music. I understood it, the feeling of being in a live music setting—

Then I opened my eyes and realized how much I missed my dog. I had leftovers that needed to be eaten before they went bad. I want to put on my pajamas and a pair of fuzzy socks. Maybe curl up on the couch with an episode of New Girl before getting cozy in bed with a book or one of my many knitting projects. I decided I would stay for fifteen more minutes. Leaving before 10 p.m. would have been too embarrassing.

I shouted the lyrics to another song that I had learned only days before. Checked my phone: 9:56. I slipped out the back door midsong and drove home, blasting the setlist from my speakers with the windows down.

As a teenager, I had to figure out who I was in the world. Now, I have to figure out who I am to myself. This is the true meaning of my twenties: dismantling the layers of who I thought I should be by twenty-three and allowing myself to accept who I actually am. Maybe I’ll buy an iced latte and not finish it. Or get tickets to a concert and leave early. I will make choices that end in mistakes. I’ll have good intentions and still end up hurting someone. No amount of fear of becoming the “wrong” person should stop me from growing into the best version of myself. The only way to find her is to go searching.