Music Travel Repeat! › The Restless, The Hopeful, and The Broken › 

The Immortality Equation: Concerts + Connection = A Life Well-Lived (Now With Bonus Emotional Growth @ 30,000 Feet)

More Than Math, More Than Music 

There’s a kind of math they don’t teach you in school.

  • It isn’t scribbled in notebooks or hidden behind algebraic symbols. 
  • It’s learned in sweat and noise, in security lines and departure gates, in pit bruises that turn purple before you make it home. 
  • It’s measured in ticket stubs tucked into glove compartments, in coffee-stained setlists that somehow found their way into your hands, in the hum of engines and the ache of departure.
The Immortality Equation | Music Travel Repeat

The Immortality Equation is not a formula so much as a confession. It’s me trying to account for the years that nearly swallowed me and the melodies that refused to let me drown.

Most equations chase clarity. This one lives in chaos.

Because music has always been the only subject I understood without studying.

The Classroom No One Mentions

I don’t remember much from my high school algebra class except the sound of the pencil tapping on my desk while I stared at a chalkboard full of letters and numbers, I couldn’t quite make peace with. But I do remember sitting in my first concert crowd, somewhere in a parking lot amphitheater, watching the sky turn pink while the opening band tuned their guitars. That was the first time math made sense.

Not in the equations the teacher handed out, but in the way the crowd’s heartbeat synced into a common rhythm. 

  • Thousands of strangers became one body. 
  • Thousands of lungs exhaled in anticipation. 
  • Thousands of stories bled into a single soundtrack.

If you asked me to solve for X back then, I couldn’t. But I could tell you exactly how the air shifted the moment the lights dimmed. I could tell you how minutes turned into hours and hours into something outside of time. That’s math too — just not the kind that earns you grades. It earns you survival.

Why We Keep the Count

When I wrote down the equation — (N × M) + (C ÷ D) = L — I wasn’t trying to be clever. I was trying to keep track. Because when you’ve been through some storms, you start to count the things that remind you life still has edges worth holding on to.

For me, it wasn’t therapy sessions or journal entries, though I’ve tried both. 

  • It was ticket confirmations in my inbox. 
  • It was red-eyed mornings after late nights in venues that smelled like beer and second chances. 
  • It was every time I let my voice crack wide open in the middle of a chorus I didn’t write but somehow belonged to me.

Counting concerts has been my way of counting mercy. My way of saying: I’m still here, and so is the music.

The Equation Isn’t Numbers, It’s Names

When I think of the variable N — the number of concerts attended — I don’t see digits. I see names.

The stranger in Denver, Colorado who offered me half their cigarette outside the venue because I looked like I needed something to hold on to.

The kid in Seattle, Washington with eyeliner running down his cheeks who screamed every lyric like it might be his last prayer.

The woman in Austin, Texas who grabbed my hand during an encore because she was alone and didn’t want to leave that night without touching something real.

None of these people will ever know they are part of my math. But they are. And that’s the thing about this equation: it’s communal. It’s written in the ink of strangers who never asked to be variables but became constants anyway.

The Things You Can’t Quantify

Numbers can tell you how many miles a flight covers, but they can’t explain why the tears come easier at thirty thousand feet. 

  • They can tell you how many decibels a crowd hits, but not why you’ll remember the silence between songs more vividly than the noise. 
  • They can measure time, but not the way one verse can stretch eternity across a three-minute track.

The Immortality Equation isn’t about proving anything. It’s about acknowledging that some of the most important parts of living can’t be charted, only carried.

Like the way my throat tightens every time a lyric collides with a memory I thought I’d outgrown. Or the way the echo of a snare drum can feel like a heart remembering how to beat. Or the way a stranger’s shoulder brushing mine in the pit can undo years of loneliness in half a second.

You can’t log that in Excel. You just live it.

Why I Keep Writing It Down

Every blog entry on Music Travel Repeat's The Restless, The Hopeful & The Broken is me trying to give this math a language. 

  • Trying to explain why flying into a city just to stand in a crowd of strangers feels less like escapism and more like oxygen. 
  • Trying to tell you that concerts are not entertainment for me — they’re medicine. They’re the IV drip when life drains me.

I write it down because I want to remember. 

  • Not just the shows, but the way they rearranged my insides. 
  • Not just the flights, but the confessions whispered to the airplane window when no one else was listening. 
  • Not just the tattoos and ramen bowls, but the quiet honesty they forced me to sit with.

Because if I don’t write it down, I’ll forget that I lived it. And forgetting feels too much like dying.

What the Equation Promises

So here’s the promise hidden in the mess: 

  • if you let music chart your course
  • if you let concerts mark your time
  • if you let travel widen your map

life stops being about how many years you stack up. It becomes about how deeply you live the ones you’ve been given.

That’s why I call it the Immortality Equation. Not because it saves you from death, but because it rescues you from living half-asleep. It turns years into verses, flights into confessions, and strangers into chapters of your story.

And maybe, if you’re lucky, you wake up one day with a life that feels less like math homework and more like a playlist you never want to end.

Why Concerts Stretch Time Instead of Adding It

Most people count life in years.
They tally

  • birthdays
  • anniversaries
  • graduations
  • retirements

and maybe a handful of holidays that stand taller than the rest. They use calendars hung on refrigerators or marked with reminders on their phones. They talk about decades as if they’re the only unit of measurement that matters.

But here’s the thing no one tells you: years are clumsy mathematicians. They don’t add correctly. They rush past the good stuff and linger too long in the ache. Years are biased toward chronology, not depth. And depth is where the good stuff hides.

I don’t measure my life in years anymore. I measure it in concerts.

Because concerts don’t just add time the way birthdays do — they stretch it. They take the ordinary arithmetic of life and bend it like sound waves until it feels eternal, even if only for a moment.

A Night That Refuses to End

Think back to your favorite show.
The one where the lights dropped, and for a split second, the world held its breath with you. 

  • Remember the way your pulse raced as the first note cut through the dark.
  • Remember the chorus that made your chest ache like it was trying to remind you what being alive actually felt like.

Did that moment feel like three minutes and thirty-two seconds? Or did it feel like infinity folded neatly into a verse?

That’s what I mean when I say concerts stretch time. They don’t obey the clock. They defy it.

I’ve been to shows where I swore the night ended too soon, but when I looked back, I realized I had lived entire chapters in those two hours. I had lost my voice, gained a memory, and stitched myself back together all before the house lights came up.

The Year I Counted Shows Instead of Weeks

One year I decided to count my life differently. Instead of weeks or months, I tallied concerts. Fifty-two of them, to be exact. One for every week of the calendar year.

That number looks impressive on paper, but numbers never tell the whole story.

Here’s what it really meant:

  • Fifty-two times I let music knock the dust off my soul.
  • Fifty-two times I stood shoulder to shoulder with strangers who somehow knew my heart better than people who had my phone number.
  • Fifty-two reminders that life isn’t supposed to be lived alone.

The list grew longer in ways I couldn’t capture with ink:

Airport noodles devoured in layovers I didn’t plan.

Vacation hours stretched thin but spent wisely.

Souls connected with — at least a dozen I still think about when the world feels too heavy.

Voices lost — mine, mostly, every other Tuesday, Wednesday, or Thursday.

That tally wasn’t a résumé. It wasn’t a flex. It was a survival guide. A way of saying: look, life knocked me down more times than I can count, but fifty-two nights lifted me back up again.

The Difference Between Addition and Amplification

Years add. Concerts amplify.

Addition is linear. Safe. Predictable.
Amplification is exponential. Unruly. Holy.

When you stand in front of a stage and the bass rattles your chest, you’re not just living through time — you’re stretching it, expanding it, echoing it. The music takes the seconds you’re given and multiplies them until you swear eternity brushed against your skin.

  • I can tell you about the date on my birth certificate.
  • I can show you the years printed on old driver’s licenses. 

But those numbers don’t tell you who I am. The concerts do.

Because the night Seether played “Broken” in Seattle didn’t just exist on the calendar — it carved a permanent scar into my story. The pit at Summer of Loud in San Diego, California didn’t just happen on a Saturday in July — it rewired my understanding of survival.

When the Calendar Doesn’t Matter

There are nights when the show ends and you walk out into the parking lot, your ears ringing, your chest buzzing, and the first thing you think is: what year is it again?

That’s not because you’ve forgotten. It’s because it doesn’t matter.

Music has this way of pulling you out of the tyranny of calendars and pushing you into presence. In those moments

  • your rent doesn’t matter
  • your email doesn’t matter
  • the argument you had earlier doesn’t matter. 

The only thing that matters is the fact that you’re alive and you’re feeling it with every decibel that rattles your rib cage.

That’s not addition. That’s resurrection.

The Crowds That Keep Me Honest

Concerts stretch time not just because of the music, but because of the people who show up for it.

  • The kid in the back row screaming lyrics like a lifeline.
  • The mom next to me holding her daughter’s hand tighter than she probably did in years.
  • The stranger who offers you water in the pit when they see your knees wobble.

These people remind me that time isn’t measured in solitude. It’s measured in connection.

When I write for Music Travel Repeat, I think about those faces. I think about the choir of strangers who unknowingly keep me alive. And I realize — this is why I count concerts instead of years. Because years are lonely. Concerts are communal. And I’d rather measure my life in the company of a choir than the silence of a calendar.

Why I Keep Coming Back

Every time I walk into a venue, I tell myself: remember this. 

  • Remember the way the lights hit the stage, the way the bass makes your lungs feel borrowed, the way the crowd becomes one living organism.
  • Remember the lyric that makes your eyes sting.
  • Remember the encore that convinces you not all endings are sad.

Because if I can remember those things, I can make peace with the years.

And maybe that’s the truest equation of all:

Concerts don’t add to your life the way birthdays do.
They stretch it, bend it, amplify it until you swear eternity kissed you on the forehead before you left the venue.

  • That’s why I keep buying the ticket.
  • That’s why I keep showing up.
  • That’s why I measure differently.

Because concerts refuse to let time win.

The Equation Broken Down 

The Immortality Equation looks like math, but it’s really a memory map. 

  • Every variable carries a piece of me. 
  • Every letter is a story, a scar, a reason I keep lacing up my boots and walking back into another venue.

So, let’s slow down and really break it apart.

N = Number of Concerts

On paper, it looks simple: N is just a number.
How many concerts did you attend this year? Ten? Twenty? Fifty-two if you’re reckless and restless like me?

But the truth is, N is never just a number. Each concert is a marker — a breadcrumb left behind on the trail of who you’re becoming.

I remember my first show. I don’t even remember the band as much as I remember 

  • the way my palms sweated holding the ticket
  • the way the crowd swallowed me whole
  • the way I realized that for the first time, my insides matched the outside world — noisy, messy, alive.

Then there was the show where I took my best friend, and he left halfway through because it was too loud, too much. I stayed. And that night I learned that sometimes the road is walked alone, but it’s still worth walking.

Fifty-two shows in one year. That’s one per week. That’s fifty-two times I chose presence over productivity. Fifty-two times I let music prove to me I was still alive.

So when I say N, I don’t mean digits. I mean a full deck of memory cards for the soul.

M = Moments That Left You Breathless

M is harder to pin down, because it’s not the whole concert — it’s the flashes within it.

  • The first note of a ballad that hits too close.
  • The silence before the encore, when the air itself feels electric.
  • The stranger’s hand brushing yours, and for half a second, you remember you’re not alone in this world.

Those moments don’t last long. They’re gone in seconds. But they stretch across years in your memory.

  • I can still close my eyes and see the confetti fall at a show in Phoenix like it’s happening right now.
  • I can still hear the hush in Seattle when Seether sang “Broken.”
  • I can still feel the sweat on my neck from the pit in San Diego, where I shouted lyrics with people whose names I’ll never know but whose voices I’ll never forget.

That’s what M stands for. Not “moments” in the way social media sells them. But moments in the marrow. Breathless moments that tattoo themselves on your ribs.

C = Cities Visited

Travel has always been my second teacher. If concerts showed me how to feel, cities showed me how to change.

  • Seattle didn’t just give me rain — it gave me honesty. It gave me the courage to admit grief, to let it cling like mist on a jacket.
  • Denver didn’t just feed me ramen — it gave me clarity. It taught me that even in a layover city, even in the in-between, healing happens if you let it.
  • Baltimore, Maryland didn’t just pull me home — it gave me the mirror I didn’t want to look into. It reminded me that family wounds don’t disappear, but they can be faced.

Each city isn’t just geography. It’s cartography of the soul. Every stop marks a place where I shed a version of myself and picked up another.

C is the reminder that travel isn’t about miles. It’s about the way a skyline etches itself into your memory. The way a city’s soundtrack becomes part of your own.

D = Distractions Ignored

This is the one that doesn’t look glamorous, but it might be the most radical.

Because in a world where your phone buzzes every thirty seconds, ignoring distractions is a kind of rebellion.

At concerts, I leave my phone in my pocket. I don’t need a screen to prove I was there. The proof lives in my chest, in my throat, in my ringing ears the morning after.

I’ve missed shots I could’ve posted online. I’ve missed videos that might’ve gone viral. But I haven’t missed the moments. And that’s the point.

D reminds me that the only way to live wide open is to close the doors to noise that doesn’t matter.
It’s the reason I still cry on airplanes. Because sometimes the only way to feel is to ignore everything that tells you not to.

L = The Life You Actually Want to Live

And then there’s L — the sum of it all.

Not longevity. Not numbers. But depth. Alignment. Presence.

L is 

  • the reason I keep booking flights I can’t afford
  • the reason I keep writing these long essays when no one asked me to
  • the reason I stand in pits and let strangers bump into me until I remember I’m human.

Because the life I want isn’t tidy. It isn’t safe. It isn’t optimized for efficiency.

It’s messy. Loud. Sacred.
It’s crying in airplane windows.
It’s ramen bowls at midnight in cities I don’t call home.
It’s voices lost in lyrics that feel like therapy.
It’s tattoos etched with survival.
It’s strangers who become family for one night and sometimes forever.

That’s what L adds up to. That’s what this whole ridiculous equation is for.

Not to prove I solved life. But to prove I lived it.

Why I Keep Solving It

Some equations you solve once and walk away. This one you solve over and over, night after night, city after city.

Because life doesn’t stop asking the same question: Are you really living, or are you just counting years?

And the only way I know how to answer is by showing up at the venue. By pressing “Buy Ticket.” By boarding the flight. By standing in the pit and letting the bass rearrange my heartbeat.

That’s how I keep solving it. That’s how I keep choosing L.

Seether in Seattle — A Compass Reset

Seattle has always been a city of reckoning for me.
The kind of place that doesn’t just greet you with open arms — it tests you. The air itself feels like an interrogation. The rain isn’t the kind that passes quickly; it lingers, like grief that refuses to be washed away. It clings to your jacket, your hair, your heart. It makes you admit things you’d rather keep hidden.

Some cities let you play pretend. Seattle doesn’t.

When I stepped off the plane that afternoon, I felt the weight of everything I hadn’t said pressing down on my shoulders. The gray sky wasn’t just weather — it was a mirror. It asked me: What are you still carrying?

The Walk to Showbox SoDo

The Showbox SoDo isn’t the most glamorous venue in the world. It’s industrial, raw, and unapologetic — like Seattle itself. Walking there in the drizzle with GQ the Heartbeat, my shoes soaking through, I felt like I was walking toward something bigger than a concert.

Every step echoed with memory. Past fights, past regrets, the voice of someone I once loved telling me I was too much and not enough at the same time. The rain didn’t wash it away. It amplified it.

By the time we got in line, my throat was already tight, and the show hadn’t even started.

The Lights Drop, the Reckoning Begins

There’s a unique silence before a band takes the stage. Not true silence — more like a held breath, a suspended heartbeat, thousands of bodies all waiting for the same thing.

When Seether walked out, that silence cracked open.
Shaun Morgan stepped to the mic, and the first chords hit like a storm.

I’ve heard “Broken” more times than I can count, but that night it wasn’t just a song. It was an excavation. 

  • Every apology I never received rose up in my chest. 
  • Every word I never said to the people who left me felt like smoke choking my lungs.

When Shaun sang, “I wanted you to know I love the way you laugh,” I thought of laughter I hadn’t heard in years. When he sang, “I wanted you to know I love the way you smile,” I thought of someone whose smile had once been home and then turned into a weapon.

The lyrics weren’t just lines. They were confessions I’d buried. And now they were clawing their way out in the middle of a venue in Seattle.

Collapsing and Rebuilding

It’s hard to explain how music can break you and heal you in the same moment. But that’s exactly what happened.

Standing there with GQ beside me, I felt something collapse inside me — like scaffolding I’d been propping myself up with for too long finally giving way. And yet, in the ruins, something else began to build.

  • The bass thudded like a new heartbeat. 
  • The guitars roared like a reminder that rage can be holy if it keeps you alive. 

Shaun’s voice wasn’t just singing; it was testifying. It was saying: You’re not the only one who’s been shattered. You’re not the only one still standing in the rubble.

By the second chorus, tears blurred the lights. I wasn’t embarrassed. Nobody looked twice. Because that’s the thing about concerts — they’re one of the only places left in the world where crying in public is allowed, even expected.

Why Seattle Always Finds Me

Seattle has a way of pulling me back when I least want to go. 

  • It’s the city that forces me to stop pretending. 
  • It’s rain and reckoning, ramen shops and regret, music venues and memory.

I don’t go there for comfort. I go there for truth.

And that night at Showbox SoDo, the truth was this: I was broken, but I wasn’t done.

Seattle whispered, Stop running. Stand still long enough to feel it.
And the music answered, and when you do, you won’t be alone.

The Compass Reset

When the show ended and the lights came up, I didn’t walk out healed. That’s not how grief works. That’s not how music works either.

But I walked out different. Like a compass that had been spinning wildly finally pointed north again.

Not because the pain was gone. But because the pain had purpose. It wasn’t just a wound anymore — it was direction.

I looked over at GQ, damp hair plastered to her forehead, eyeliner smudged from her own tears, and I knew: this is why I travel. This is why I write. This is why I stand in the pit until my voice is gone.

Because concerts aren’t just entertainment. They’re checkpoints. Compass resets. Sacred interruptions that remind you that you’re still alive and that survival counts for something.

What Seether Gave Me That Night

Seether didn’t save me that night in Seattle. They did something better.

They reminded me I didn’t need saving.
I just needed reminding.

  • Reminding that broken doesn’t mean finished.
  • Reminding that grief can be carried without swallowing me whole.
  • Reminding that the sound of a guitar can be enough to keep you here for another day.

When Shaun Morgan sang those words into the rain-soaked Seattle night, I realized I wasn’t just singing along. I was testifying with him. Adding my voice to the equation. Saying: I’m still here. And maybe that’s enough.

Related: Seether In Seattle: A Musical Homecoming For The Restless Heart

Why I Still Cry on Airplanes

It wasn’t an accident that on the flight home, thirty thousand feet above the ground, the tears came again. Planes have always been confessional booths for me. The hum of the engines makes the heart louder.

That night in Seattle followed me into the clouds. 

  • I pressed my forehead to the window and whispered apologies no one will ever hear.
  • I let the grief I carried drip down my cheeks, and for once, I didn’t fight it.

Because some nights — some concerts, some cities — change the way you cry. They don’t stop the tears. They just turn them from weakness into witness.

And Seattle did that for me.

Related: Why I Still Cry on Airplanes (And Why That’s Okay)

Denver — Ramen, Tattoos & Real Talk

Denver wasn’t supposed to matter.

  • It was supposed to be a way point. 
  • A layover. 
  • A place to stretch legs, grab a quick bite, maybe catch a couple hours of sleep before the next flight. 

Cities like that don’t usually end up etched into your chest. They’re supposed to be forgettable — dots on a map you fly over without blinking.

But the road doesn’t take suggestions. 

  • It doesn’t care about your categories of “important” and “unimportant.” 
  • It hands you moments when it wants to, and it asks you to pay attention.

And in Denver, I learned the truth: some of the most important chapters in your story arrive in disguise.

The Ramen Bowl That Stilled the Noise

We found ourselves at JINYA Ramen Bar at Union Station on a cold evening. The air outside carried that mountain sharpness, crisp enough to remind you to breathe. Inside, the warmth rose up from bowls of broth so fragrant it almost silenced the conversations around us.

I don’t know why ramen has always felt holy to me. Maybe because it’s built on layers. Bones boiled for hours, flavors coaxed into harmony, patience turning scraps into sustenance. It’s survival food turned sacred.

As the steam curled upward, I felt something loosen in me. Airports are loud. Concerts are loud. But a bowl of ramen has a way of asking for silence, for reverence. It demands you sit still long enough to taste what you’ve been given.

Across from me, GQ stirred her noodles, her eyes tired but honest. That’s when the conversation shifted.

The Baggage We Don’t Check

We didn’t talk about the set lists or the merch tables. We talked about the baggage we don’t check — the kind no airline ever weighs but still charges us for.

She told me about scars she still doesn’t show anyone, about insecurities that sneak in even on her brightest days. I told her about the ghosts I carry into every city, the voices in my head that whisper I’m too much, too messy, too broken.

For once, there was no rush to cover the pain with jokes. No need to wrap the raw edges in politeness. The broth in front of us made honesty feel safe.

And in that tiny ramen shop in Denver, I remembered that survival isn’t just about getting through. It’s about naming what almost killed you and still choosing to laugh in the aftermath.

The Tattoo That Spoke Louder Than Words

Later that night, we walked into a tattoo shop tucked between commercial building & row homes. The hum of the tattoo machine filled the air, steady and unflinching.

GQ sat in the chair first. She had decided on something small, simple, but bold enough to declare survival. I watched her face as the needle touched skin — not flinching, not hiding, just breathing through it.

There’s something about tattoos that feels different when you’re not getting one yourself. Watching someone you love choose pain for the sake of permanence, choose ink as testimony — it makes you realize survival is contagious.

Her tattoo wasn’t just art. It was proof. 

  • Proof that she’d made it this far.
  • Proof that scars don’t just happen to us 

sometimes we create them to remind ourselves we’re still alive.

And I’ll be honest: I envied her clarity.

Because for me, pain has always felt like something I stumble into, not something I claim. Watching her, I wondered if 

  • maybe survival isn’t just endurance
  • maybe it’s defiance

maybe it’s saying I’m still here, and I’m willing to etch it into my skin so I never forget it.

What Denver Gave Me Without Asking

I left that night without new ink, but I carried something heavier. Denver gave me back honesty I didn’t know I’d misplaced.

  • The ramen reminded me that stillness is sacred. That nourishment is more than calories — it’s connection.
  • The tattoo reminded me that survival can be declared, not just endured. That healing doesn’t whisper; sometimes it hums loud like a machine pressing into flesh.
  • The conversation reminded me that baggage doesn’t go away when you ignore it — it just waits until you’re brave enough to unpack it with someone who won’t flinch.

And the city itself reminded me that “layover” is just another word for “pause.” And pauses are often where the real music happens.

Why Denver Stuck

I didn’t expect Denver to stick with me. I thought I’d forget it like I’ve forgotten a hundred other stopover cities. But even now, when I close my eyes, I can taste the broth, smell the ink, hear the honesty in GQ’s voice.

Because Denver wasn’t about sightseeing or souvenirs. It was about pausing long enough to realize survival doesn’t need a grand stage. Sometimes it’s found in a bowl of soup, a few brave words, a small piece of ink.

And maybe that’s the point. Maybe the road teaches us that not every chapter will be fireworks and encores. Some chapters will be ramen bowls and rain-wet sidewalks. Some chapters will be tattoos that say, I’m still here.

The Real Talk That Changed Me

As we walked back to the hotel that night, the city lights blurred in the mist, and I realized something simple but profound: I don’t always need to chase meaning. Sometimes it sits across the table, chopsticks in hand, telling the truth between slurps of noodles.

GQ looked at me and said, “We’ve been through hell, but maybe that’s why we laugh so hard.”

I didn’t have an answer. I just nodded, because she was right. Survival doesn’t erase the hard stuff. It just makes the laughter louder when it finally comes.

And in that moment, I decided Denver wasn’t just a layover. It was a landmark. A reminder that even the in-between places can reset your compass if you let them.

Why I’ll Never Skip the Small Stops Again

Now, whenever I see Denver on a ticket, I don’t think “layover.”

  • I think “lesson.” 
  • I think of ramen bowls steaming with honesty. 
  • I think of tattoos humming survival into skin. 
  • I think of conversations that don’t wait for perfect timing 

they happen in between flights, in between shows, in between who you were and who you’re still becoming.

Denver taught me to never skip the small stops. Because sometimes the smallest detours carry the biggest truths.

Concerts vs. Conventional Wellness

Wellness is a billion-dollar industry.
You can’t scroll your feed without being told to buy a mat, drink a juice, plunge yourself into ice, or download a meditation app that promises inner peace for $14.99 a month. And don’t get me wrong — I’ve tried some of it. 

  • Yoga has its beauty. 
  • A long walk clears the head. 
  • A smoothie can taste like a reset button in a glass.

But here’s the thing: none of it has ever healed me the way a pit has.

The healthiest habit I’ve ever found isn’t listed on the back of a nutrition label or packaged in a wellness retreat brochure. It’s standing shoulder to shoulder with strangers in a dimly lit venue, lungs heaving, ears ringing, soul stripped bare.

Concerts are my therapy. My cleanse. My meditation. My reminder that life is meant to be lived out loud.

Yoga vs. The Mosh Pit

Yoga teaches presence. So does the pit.

  • Both demand breath. 
  • oth require surrender. 
  • Both leave you lighter than when you started.

But where yoga asks you to stretch on a mat, the pit asks you to stretch your definition of trust. You step into a whirlpool of bodies and let yourself be thrown around, bruised, carried, tested. And in that chaos, you find the same stillness yogis talk about — because your mind can’t wander when a stranger’s elbow is inches from your ribs.

In yoga, you breathe through discomfort. In the pit, you scream through it. Different postures, same goal: release.

The mat teaches you balance. The pit teaches you resilience. And sometimes resilience is the truest balance there is.

Dog Walking vs. Crowd Surfing

I’ve had dogs most of my life. Walking them is its own kind of grounding ritual. Step by step, leash in hand, you build trust. You learn to notice the world — a rustle in the bushes, the way the light falls across a cracked sidewalk, the rhythm of four paws moving with yours.

But crowd surfing? That’s radical trust. That’s looking at a sea of strangers and saying: Here, I give you, my weight. Don’t drop me.

And more often than not, they don’t.

It’s messy. Sometimes hands grab too rough, sometimes you’re set down harder than you’d like. But most of the time, you glide across palms like you’re being carried by something bigger than yourself. And for those brief seconds, you’re not just walking in trust — you’re floating in it.

Walking your dog says: I trust you not to run away.
Crowd surfing says: I trust the world not to let me fall.

Both are sacred in their own ways. But only one leaves you with bruises that feel like proof.

Juice Cleanses vs. Lyric Therapy

Kale smoothies can flush toxins, sure. But screaming every lyric to a song that gutted you years ago? That flushes grief.

I’ve tried green drinks. I’ve tried juice cleanses. They left me hungry, cranky, waiting for some miraculous lightness that never really came. But I’ve also stood in a crowd, throat raw, screaming words I didn’t write but felt carved into me. And when the lights came up, I felt lighter. Not physically — emotionally. Spiritually.

Lyric therapy works because it doesn’t demand you fix yourself quietly.

  • It lets you break loudly.
  • It lets you confess without shame.

The chorus becomes your cleanse. The verse becomes your exorcism. The bridge becomes your prayer.

And when it’s over, you don’t need a refund. You just need water and maybe a little Advil.

Cold Plunges vs. Guitar Feedback

Wellness gurus love to sell the shock of cold water — the way it jolts you awake, forces your nervous system to reset. I’ve plunged into icy pools myself, teeth chattering, heart racing, trying to believe this was the key to clarity.

But I’ve also stood pressed against a stage monitor while the guitarist let the feedback ring, a wall of noise so loud it felt like it was rearranging my DNA. And let me tell you — that was my cold plunge. That was the shock that reset me.

Because feedback doesn’t just hit your ears. It hits your bones. It scrapes out the numbness you didn’t know had settled in. And when the next chord finally comes, you feel more alive than you did seconds before.

No towels required.

Meditation Apps vs. The Encore

There are apps that promise mindfulness. Ten minutes a day of calm, guided breathing, ocean sounds playing in the background. And maybe that works for some people.

But for me? The encore is my meditation.

  • That sacred hush when the band leaves the stage and the crowd refuses to accept it’s over. 
  • That moment when thousands of strangers chant as one, demanding more.
  • That shared breath, that unified insistence: Don’t leave us yet.

It’s the purest form of presence I know. Everyone in the room is focused on one thing. Everyone is united in anticipation. And when the band finally returns, the release is euphoric — the same way a deep breath feels after holding it too long.

That’s meditation. That’s mindfulness. That’s medicine.

Why Concerts Heal Where Wellness Trends Don’t

Here’s the truth: wellness trends are designed to sell you something. They market calm, clarity, energy, all wrapped in price tags.

Concerts, though? They’re designed to remind you of what you already have. Breath. Connection. Emotion. The body’s capacity to feel, to endure, to sing even when the throat is torn.

And maybe that’s why concerts have always worked better for me. Because they don’t promise perfection. They don’t ask you to erase your chaos. They invite you to bring it with you, to sweat it out, to scream it out, to let it collide with everyone else’s chaos until the whole room becomes a sanctuary of noise and healing.

The Healthiest Habit I Know

People ask me sometimes 

  • Why I keep going to so many shows. 
  • Why I spend money I don’t really have on flights and tickets. 
  • Why I keep choosing the pit when I could be choosing sleep.

And my answer is simple: it keeps me alive.

  • Yoga makes me calmer. 
  • Smoothies make me feel cleaner. 
  • Walks make me steadier. 

But concerts make me remember I’m still here. And when you’ve been through some storms, remembering is half the battle.

The pit has been my therapy.
The encore has been my meditation.
The chorus has been my cleanse.

That’s wellness. That’s wholeness. That’s my immortality equation at work.

 

Music as Medicine 

I’ve always believed music is medicine.
Not the kind that comes in orange bottles with white caps, but the kind that sneaks in through your ears, finds its way into your chest, and rewires the way your heart remembers how to beat.

  • Doctors will tell you about dopamine, serotonin, oxytocin — the chemical cocktails that surge when a song hits just right. 
  • Scientists will show you brain scans lighting up like constellations when music plays.

And I believe them. But I also believe there’s something bigger at work. Something that doesn’t fit neatly on a chart or inside a lab report.

Because I’ve seen it with my own eyes: music pulling people back from the brink.

The Science That Confirms What We Already Know

Let’s start with what the data says.

Self-worth increases by 25% after just 20 minutes of live music. That’s one setlist away from feeling like maybe you can handle the week again.

Mental stimulation soars by 75%. No Sudoku puzzle has ever done that for me.

Well-being gets a 21% bump. That’s the kind of improvement most prescription ads whisper about in fine print while listing side effects.

And here’s my favorite: attending 26 shows a year can add up to nine years to your life. Nine extra birthdays. Nine more summers. Nine more chances to hear your favorite band one more time.

That’s not just correlation. That’s salvation.

But even the smartest study in the world can’t capture what it feels like when a lyric lands in your chest like a defibrillator.

When Music Found Me in the Dark

There were nights when I didn’t want to be here. Nights when the world felt too heavy, when the idea of tomorrow felt like a cruel joke. And in those nights, it wasn’t therapy or medicine or well-meaning advice that pulled me through.

It was a song.

Sometimes it was Ayron Jones screaming survival into his guitar strings. Sometimes it was Beartooth raging against the quiet breakdowns no one else could see. Sometimes it was James Taylor whispering gentleness into wounds I thought were permanent.

Related: James Taylor’s Wolf Trap Concert and the Father-Son Lessons I Didn’t Expect

Those songs didn’t fix me. But they kept me here long enough to try again. And sometimes that’s what medicine is — not a cure, but a reminder. A reason. A breath.

The Invisible Prescription

No doctor ever handed me a note that said: “Take two concerts and call me in the morning.” But maybe they should have.

Because concerts give me what no pharmacy can:

Presence. Pills numb. Music awakens.

Connection. Therapy is one-on-one. Concerts are one-to-thousands.

Catharsis. Most medicine dulls symptoms. Music lets you scream them out until your ribs ache, but your soul feels lighter.

The pit is my prescription. The encore is my dosage. The ringing in my ears is my side effect — and I’ll take it every time.

Music That Testifies

In my post about Ayron Jones — The Sound of Survival — I wrote that music doesn’t just play, it testifies. And I still believe that.

Because when Ayron sings about clawing his way out of the shadows, he’s not offering entertainment. He’s offering evidence. 

  • Proof that survival is possible.
  • Proof that pain can be transfigured into melody. 
  • Proof that someone else has walked through fire and come out still singing.

That’s medicine. The kind you don’t swallow — the kind you absorb through your skin.

The Hospital in the Pit

I’ve seen it with my own eyes: concerts turning into makeshift hospitals.

A stranger fainting in the pit and dozens of hands lifting them up, carrying them to safety.

A kid crying through an entire set because the lyrics hit too close, and the crowd pressing in, not to suffocate but to shelter.

Me, clutching the barricade like it was the only thing keeping me from unraveling, and feeling a hand on my shoulder — a stranger reminding me I wasn’t invisible.

You can’t measure that with charts. But you can feel it. And if that’s not healing, I don’t know what is.

The Body Remembers

Science says music lowers cortisol. That’s the stress hormone, the chemical that keeps your body braced for impact even when the storm has already passed.

But I don’t need a lab to tell me that. I can feel it when the first guitar note cuts through a venue. My shoulders drop. My lungs expand. The body remembers how to rest.

Science says music increases oxytocin, the bonding hormone. Again — no surprise. I’ve felt it in the choir of strangers singing as one, voices blending until you can’t tell where yours ends and theirs begins. The body remembers how to belong.

Science says music helps with memory, with cognition, with emotional regulation. That’s the polite way of saying: music reminds us who we are when we forget. The body remembers how to hope.

Healing Without Words

Not all wounds are easy to explain. Not all griefs are easy to name. And sometimes, sitting across from someone with a clipboard, you realize words can only take you so far.

That’s where music comes in. 

  • It doesn’t ask you to explain. I
  • t doesn’t ask you to justify. 
  • It doesn’t even ask you to understand.

It just says: Sing with me.
And suddenly, you’re not alone anymore.

Music in the Airplane Confessional

Some of my deepest healing hasn’t happened in therapy rooms or hospital beds — it’s happened thirty thousand feet above the ground with headphones pressed into my ears.

There’s something about altitude that makes the tears fall easier. Something about the hum of engines that turns every song into scripture. I’ve listened to playlists on flights that felt like confessions I didn’t know I was ready to make.

And when the plane lands, the problems are still there. But so am I. And sometimes, that’s the miracle.

Why I Keep Going Back

People sometimes ask why I keep going to so many shows, why I keep spending money on tickets when there are cheaper ways to cope.

And I tell them the truth: I don’t go to concerts because I can afford to. I go because I can’t afford not to.

Music keeps me alive.
It keeps me honest.
It keeps me human.

That’s medicine. Not prescribed. Not patented. Just given freely in three chords and the truth.

The Benediction of Noise

In the end, music’s medicine isn’t about erasing pain. It’s about transforming it. 

  • Turning breakdowns into breakthroughs. 
  • Turning grief into something you can scream. 
  • Turning silence into song.

And maybe that’s the greatest miracle of all: 

  • The noise becomes benediction. 
  • The feedback becomes forgiveness. 
  • The chorus becomes communion.

Music heals because it reminds us we’re not alone in our wounds. And when you’ve been through some storms, that reminder is worth more than any pill.

Bonus Emotional Growth @ 30,000 Feet 

Planes have always been confessional booths for me.
Not the kind with velvet curtains and a priest on the other side, but aluminum cylinders with seat belts that never quite fit and engines that hum loud enough to make you honest. Something about altitude strips away the layers I keep on the ground. 

  • maybe it’s the thin air
  • maybe it’s the hum of turbines
  • maybe it’s just the way the world shrinks beneath you until all your excuses feel small too.

I’ve cried on dozens of flights. Not quietly either — the kind of crying where your body shakes against the seat and you hope the stranger in 23B is too lost in their movie to notice. 

  • Gratitude
  • Grief
  • Awe

Sometimes all three tangled together.

Why Altitude Feels Like Honesty

On the ground, I’m good at holding it together. I can bury myself in noise — music, conversations, work, distractions. But at thirty thousand feet, there’s nowhere to hide. You’re strapped in. You can’t pace. You can’t leave. All you can do is sit there with your thoughts and whatever playlist you queued up before takeoff.

It’s the stillness that undoes me.

The hum of the engines becomes a kind of white noise therapy, and suddenly the walls I’ve built start to crack. 

  • Tears slip out before I can argue with them. 
  • Regrets bubble up I thought I’d buried. 
  • Gratitude rushes in for no reason at all, like the cabin pressure forces it out.

And in those moments, I remember: crying isn’t weakness. It’s proof that the heart still works.

Playlists as Journals

Every playlist I make for a flight becomes a journal entry I didn’t mean to write. I’ll throw songs together without thinking, and then halfway through the flight, I realize the sequence tells the truth I wasn’t ready to put on paper.

  • The angry tracks reveal the grudges I haven’t let go.
  • The sad ballads expose the griefs I keep pretending don’t matter.
  • The hopeful anthems remind me I still believe in tomorrow, even if I don’t say it out loud.

I’ve had entire breakthroughs at 30,000 feet without ever saying a word, just pressing “next” on my headphones until the right lyric cracked me open.

And when the tears come, I don’t fight them anymore. I let them wash over me, trusting that the stranger beside me won’t remember my face tomorrow.

Related: The Backseat Benedictions; Music For A Road Trip

The Hum That Holds You

Maybe it’s the hum of the engines. That constant, low vibration that feels like the world rocking you to sleep. It’s steady. Predictable. Comforting in a way few things are.

When you’re up there, your life feels suspended between earth and sky. 

  • Every problem looks smaller when the cities turn into miniature grids beneath you.
  • Every heartbreak feels quieter when the clouds swallow your view.

And in that hush, the hum becomes more than background noise. It becomes a reminder: you’re held, even here.

Gratitude in Unexpected Places

Some of my hardest tears on planes haven’t been about grief. They’ve been about gratitude that caught me off guard.

  • Gratitude for GQ asleep beside me, her head resting on my shoulder, her breathing steady like proof that love can be simple.
  • Gratitude for the friend who texted me before takeoff just to say, “Proud of you.”
  • Gratitude for the chance to chase music across state lines, even when my bank account said I had no business buying another ticket.

There’s something about being suspended above the world that makes gratitude louder. Maybe because you realize how small and fragile everything is. And maybe because you realize how lucky you are to still be here, fragile and small but still moving forward.

Grief That Finds Its Way Through the Clouds

But of course, the grief finds me too.

I’ve wept over airplane windows, the reflection of my face staring back at me while the sky stretched endless and indifferent. I’ve pressed my palm to the glass, pretending I could touch the clouds, knowing deep down I was really reaching for something else — someone else.

Airplanes make grief feel both heavier and lighter. Heavier because you can’t escape it. Lighter because the sky reminds you that everything you feel is just a fragment of something bigger.

I’ve learned to stop fighting the grief when it comes at altitude. I let it rise. I let it fall. Like turbulence, it passes if you ride it out.

The Sacred Solitude of Seat 23A

There’s something sacred about a window seat. Seat 23A, tray table down, notebook open, headphones in. It feels like sanctuary.

Nobody asks you for anything. Nobody interrupts. You’re cocooned in a small corner of the sky, free to feel everything you’ve been holding back.

  • Sometimes I write. 
  • Sometimes I just stare at the clouds until they look like mountains and oceans and broken promises. 
  • Sometimes I let the music do the talking for me.

But always, always, I leave that seat a little different than when I boarded.

Why Planes Are Part of the Equation

That’s why this section belongs in the Immortality Equation. Because the concerts change me, yes. The cities shift me, yes. But the flights in between — the hours suspended above the earth — that’s where the emotional growth sneaks in.

At thirty thousand feet, I can’t distract myself with errands or chores. I can’t escape into busyness. All I can do is feel.

And feeling, as inconvenient as it is, is what keeps me alive.

The Benediction of the Sky

So when I say I’ve cried on dozens of flights, I don’t say it with shame. I say it with gratitude. Because those tears were medicine. They were reminders. They were proof that even when life pressed me down, I was still reaching up.

The sky has been my confessional, my therapist, my reminder that being fragile is another way of being strong.

And when the wheels hit the ground and the flight attendant says, “Welcome to Baltimore” or “Welcome to Phoenix, Arizona” or “Welcome to Seattle,” I wipe my cheeks, gather my bag, and step back into the chaos — lighter, softer, a little more human.

That’s bonus emotional growth. That’s altitude honesty. That’s why airplanes will always be part of my story.

Tom Sawyer of Tempe — The Third Dad

It was somewhere between Seattle and Phoenix, on a flight that was supposed to be routine, that I met Tom Sawyer. Not the Huck Finn kind of Tom Sawyer, not a boy with a raft on the Mississippi, but a retired engineer with a gentle laugh and eyes that looked like they’d seen storms and still chosen to love the sky.

Airplanes have a way of putting you shoulder to shoulder with people you’d never meet otherwise. 

  • You buckle in
  • you share armrests
  • you trade awkward glances when the drink cart rattles by

and sometimes, if you’re lucky, you end up talking.

That day, I was lucky.

A Stranger in 23C

He was sitting in 23C, the aisle seat, reading a paperback with the cover folded back. I had 23A by the window. He looked up when I slid into my seat and smiled like we’d known each other longer than the thirty seconds it took me to stash my bag overhead.

“Tom Sawyer,” he said, offering his hand before the plane even pushed back.

“Of course you are,” I laughed, shaking it.

He chuckled. “Not the raft and fence kind. Just the desert kind. Tempe, Arizona.”

And just like that, the walls between strangers fell away.

Wisdom Between the Clouds

We talked for hours, the way people sometimes do when altitude makes honesty easier. He told me about his decades as an engineer, the late nights drafting blueprints by hand before computers took over, the mistakes that taught him more than the successes ever did.

But more than work, he talked about people. His kids, his grand kids, the neighbors he used to help fix leaky faucets and broken fences. He talked about love lost and found again, about the patience it takes to stay, about the courage it takes to walk away when staying means losing yourself.

And somewhere over Nevada, he looked at me and said:

“We don’t meet people by accident. Every connection adds another verse to your story.”

That line stuck to my ribs like good barbecue. It’s one of those phrases that feels simple until you live with it awhile. Then you realize it’s scripture.

The Third Dad

I’ve had complicated relationships with the father figures in my life. My biological dad, with all his distance. My Dad, with his rough edges. Both gave me pieces of myself, for better and for worse.

But Tom? Tom gave me something I didn’t know I needed: a father figure who arrived with no baggage, no history, no expectations. Just wisdom, freely offered.

By the time we began our descent into Phoenix, I wasn’t joking when I called him my “third dad.” And he didn’t laugh it off. He just nodded, as if to say, Every kid deserves more than one kind of father.

Sometimes family shows up at baggage claim instead of bloodlines.

Related: The Loudest Silence : Sons, Fathers And The Stages That Never Clapped

Why Strangers Matter

It’s easy to dismiss airplane conversations as small talk. But I’ve learned they can be lifelines. Because when you’re thirty thousand feet above the ground, stripped of distractions, sometimes you’re more open to listening. Sometimes the right stranger says the right sentence at the right altitude, and suddenly you see your life a little clearer.

Tom reminded me that family isn’t always about who raised you. Sometimes it’s about who shows up for a three-hour flight and decides to tell you the truth.

The Advice I Still Carry

Tom gave me three pieces of advice that day. Nothing dramatic, nothing complicated. Just simple truths that still guide me.

“Measure people by how they make you feel when you leave the room.”
He said too many of us measure people by titles, by bank accounts, by accomplishments. But the real test? Do you leave lighter or heavier after being with them? That stuck with me.

“Don’t let fear be your landlord.”
He told me how he stayed in jobs, houses, and relationships longer than he should have because fear convinced him he couldn’t do better. “Don’t pay rent to fear,” he said. “It’ll never stop charging you.”

“Keep your hands busy and your heart soft.”
He was an engineer, a fixer, a tinkerer. But he knew the real challenge wasn’t building machines. It was keeping his heart from hardening in a world that rewards coldness. “The world doesn’t need more clever men,” he told me. “It needs more kind ones.”

A Compass in Human Form

Looking back, Tom Sawyer of Tempe, Arizona was a compass reset in human form. Just like Seattle had reset me with rain and Seether, just like Denver had reset me with ramen and tattoos, Tom reset me with presence.

  • He didn’t hand me a road map. 
  • He didn’t try to solve my life. 
  • He just offered perspective. 

And sometimes that’s all we need — not answers, but angles. Not directions, but reminders that the path doesn’t have to be walked alone.

Why I Call Him “Dad”

I never saw Tom again. We exchanged numbers but we didn’t need to. That wasn’t the point.

He was a chapter, not a contract. A verse in my story, not the whole book. And yet, he left a mark deep enough that I still call him my “third dad.” Because fatherhood, at its core, isn’t about biology. 

  • It’s about presence.
  • It’s about wisdom. 
  • It’s about being there at the right time with the right words.

And Tom was all of that, packed into a Frontier flight from Seattle to Phoenix.

Why These Encounters Matter

People ask me sometimes why I write all this down, why I fill page after page on Music Travel Repeat with strangers and stories and cities.

The answer is simple: because these encounters are medicine. They are reminders that the world is bigger than my grief, bigger than my loneliness, bigger than the walls I sometimes build around myself.

Tom Sawyer of Tempe will never know he made it into this essay. But maybe that’s the point. Maybe the truest acts of love and wisdom are the ones that don’t ask for credit.

The Benediction of Seat 23C

As we taxied to the gate in Phoenix, Tom closed his book, patted my shoulder, and said, “Take care of yourself, kid.”

Kid. I hadn’t been called that in years. And for a moment, it didn’t feel belittling. It felt like blessing. Like benediction. Like a father reminding a son that he’s still worthy of being cared for.

I walked off that plane lighter than I had boarded. My baggage was still heavy, but my heart wasn’t. And that’s the kind of medicine you don’t forget.

So yeah — Tom Sawyer of Tempe became my third dad. Not by blood, not by marriage, not by law. 

  • But by kindness
  • By presence
  • By grace.

Sometimes family isn’t the people who raised you. Sometimes it’s the strangers who sit beside you on flights, hand you, wisdom you didn’t know you needed, and disappear into the terminal while you carry it for the rest of your life.

Buy the Ticket. Live Wide Open 

There’s a moment before every concert that doesn’t get talked about much. It doesn’t happen in the pit. It doesn’t happen in the arena. It happens alone, behind a glowing screen, when you hover over the words: Buy Tickets.

Clicking that button isn’t just commerce. It’s confession. It’s courage. It’s a pact you make with your future self: I will show up. I will feel. I will let this night change me.

The Small Act of Courage

People don’t realize how much bravery lives in that click. On the surface, it’s just money. A charge on your card. A seat reserved. But underneath, it’s you choosing to live wide open when it would be easier to stay home.

  • The bills are waiting. 
  • The responsibilities don’t pause. 
  • Life will always give you excuses not to go. 

And yet — you press purchase anyway.

That’s bravery. That’s rebellion. That’s you telling the universe: I refuse to let survival shrink me. I will chase something that makes me come alive.

The Pact With Your Future Self

When you buy a ticket, you’re not just committing to a date on the calendar. You’re making a promise to the version of yourself who will walk into that venue weeks or months later.

You’re saying: No matter how tired you are, no matter what chaos comes between now and then, I’ve already made sure you have one night waiting for you. One night that belongs only to you.

That future self might show up bruised, exhausted, carrying more than they know how to. But when they scan that ticket, they’ll feel the love you had for them in advance.

Buying the ticket is an act of tenderness toward the version of yourself you haven’t met yet.

Related: The Quickest Way To Win Free Concert Tickets

Why I’ve Spent More Than I Should Have

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve looked at my bank account and thought, I shouldn’t. 

  • Rent due. 
  • Groceries needed. 
  • Responsibilities stacked higher than my courage.

And still — I pressed purchase.

Some might call that irresponsible. I call it survival. Because I’ve never once regretted a show I went to. But I’ve regretted plenty I missed.

The truth is, I’d rather eat ramen packets for a week than skip the chance to hear a song that might save me. I’d rather juggle bills than juggle regret.

Tickets have emptied my wallet more times than I can count. But they’ve filled my soul in ways money never could.

Every Ticket Is a Declaration

I’ve kept every ticket stub I could. They sit in boxes, tucked between pages of notebooks, slipped into glove compartments. Little paper reminders that I once chose life over fear.

Each one is a declaration. Not just, I was here. But I lived here.

The stub from Seattle where Seether cracked me open.

The crumpled one from San Diego where the pit bruises became proof, I was still alive.

The faded one from Vienna, Virginia where James Taylor reminded me that tenderness is a form of strength.

These scraps of paper are more than souvenirs. They are receipts of survival. Evidence that I refused to stop showing up.

Related: James Taylor’s Wolf Trap Concert and the Father-Son Lessons I Didn’t Expect

The Anticipation That Heals Before the Show Even Starts

Buying a ticket starts healing you before the concert even arrives.

Because suddenly, you have something to look forward to. Something that cuts through the monotony of weeks that feel too heavy. A light on the calendar that says: You made it this far. You’ll make it further.

I’ve survived entire seasons because of one ticket taped to my fridge. Days when I didn’t want to get out of bed, I’d look at that date and think, Not yet. I still have that show to see.

Sometimes the promise of tomorrow is all we need to survive today.

What It Means to Live Wide Open

Living wide open doesn’t mean reckless abandon. It doesn’t mean ignoring responsibilities or pretending pain doesn’t exist.

It means choosing presence. 

  • Choosing to feel everything instead of numbing yourself into safety. 
  • Choosing to walk into rooms where your heart might break but also might be remade.

Living wide open means you leave space for surprise — for the encore that undoes you, for the stranger who becomes a friend, for the lyric that stitches you back together.

It means refusing to live half-asleep.

The Ticket as Benediction

Every time I press purchase, I whisper a prayer over that ticket. Not a religious one, but a human one.

  • I pray the night will give me what I need — whether that’s release, connection, or just proof that I can still feel.
  • I pray the band shows up tired but still willing, because even their tired songs have a way of saving me.
  • I pray the stranger beside me sings loud enough to remind me that loneliness is never permanent.

That’s the benediction of a ticket. Not certainty, but hope. Not guarantees, but the possibility of something holy.

Why I’ll Never Stop Buying Them

People ask me sometimes if I’ll ever slow down. If I’ll ever stop chasing shows, stop boarding flights, stop filling my life with pit bruises and airport noodles.

And my answer is always no. Because buying the ticket is more than habit. It’s more than fandom. It’s more than entertainment.

  • It’s my immortality equation in action.
  • It’s my survival strategy.
  • It’s my declaration of life.

Because when the night comes and the lights drop, I don’t just want to watch the music. I want to live it. Wide open.

Benediction for the Brave

So here’s my blessing for you, the next time you’re hovering over that “Buy Tickets” button, wondering if it’s worth it:

Press it.
Trust your future self.
Let the calendar hold hope for you.

Because you’re not just buying a seat. 

  • You’re buying a memory that will live in your bones. 
  • You’re buying proof that you chose presence over fear. 
  • You’re buying another verse in the song of your life.

Buy the ticket. Live wide open.

  • That’s not just advice. 
  • That’s medicine. 
  • That’s math. 
  • That’s the immortality equation at work.

The Final Chorus 

  • Every song ends. 
  • Every night, no matter how loud the crowd begs, the house lights eventually come up. 
  • Every encore has its last note; all guitar strings their final vibration.

But here’s the secret I’ve learned: the final chorus isn’t really the end. It’s the echo. It’s what follows you out into the parking lot, into the airport terminal, into the quiet of your own home. It’s the melody that keeps humming long after the amps go silent.

And that’s what this Immortality Equation is about. Not cheating death. Not extending years. But creating echoes worth carrying.

More Than Math

On paper, the equation looks clever:

(N × M) + (C ÷ D) = L

  1. Concerts attended (N)
  2. Moments that left you breathless (M)
  3. Cities visited (C)
  4. Distractions ignored (D)
  5. The life you actually want to live (L)

But the truth is, math has never been the point. The equation was just my way of making sense of something that can’t be graphed or graded. It’s my shorthand for explaining 

  • why I’ve spent more money than I should have on flights and tickets
  • why I keep chasing noise across state lines
  • why I keep writing these long, open-road essays that pour more heart than polish onto the page.

The Immortality Equation is simply this: life measured not by years but by depth.

The Lessons Hidden in Noise

Concerts have taught me more than classrooms ever did.

They taught me that presence matters more than perfection. That showing up sweaty and broken and screaming off-key is better than not showing up at all.

They taught me that connection is medicine. That a stranger’s shoulder brushing yours in the pit can heal loneliness faster than any therapy session.

They taught me that grief can be reframed, not erased. That a lyric can turn heartbreak into testimony.

They taught me that survival sometimes looks like pressing “Buy Ticket” when every excuse tells you not to.

And they taught me that the loudest part of the night isn’t always the chorus. Sometimes it’s the silence before the encore, when hope holds its breath and the crowd insists on more.

Strangers, Cities, and Skies

Along the way, I’ve gathered fragments.

  • Seattle taught me grief can be a compass, pointing me toward honesty I can’t avoid.
  • Denver taught me ramen bowls and tattoos can be sacraments when shared with someone who sees you clearly.
  • Vienna reminded me that family wounds don’t vanish, but music can still soften the edges.

Airplanes — confessional booths in the sky — gave me the space to cry without shame and playlists that turned into journals I didn’t know I was writing.
And strangers like Tom Sawyer of Tempe reminded me that family can be found in aisle seats, offered freely in three pieces of advice and a kind smile.

Every city, every seat, every pit — they’ve all stitched themselves into the fabric of this equation.

The Courage of Choosing

Here’s the part I don’t want you to miss - none of this happens by accident. You don’t stumble into immortality. You choose it.

  • Every time you press “Buy Tickets,” you choose life over fear.
  • Every time you step into the pit, you choose connection over isolation.
  • Every time you ignore distractions and let yourself cry at thirty thousand feet, you choose presence over numbness.

Living wide open isn’t the default. It’s the decision. A thousand small acts of courage that add up to a life that feels like more than math.

The Echo That Outlives Us

Someday, my body will be gone. The concerts will end, the pit bruises will fade, the ticket stubs will crumble to paper dust.

But the echoes? They’ll live on.

  • The strangers I sang with will carry a fragment of my voice in their memory, even if they don’t know my name. 
  • The blog posts on Music Travel Repeat's The Restless, The Hopeful & The Broken will sit on the internet like roadside shrines, testifying that one man tried to live wide open. 
  • The friends and the love I’ve gathered along the way will carry the songs into places I’ll never see.

And maybe that’s immortality. Not living forever. But creating echoes that outlast you.

The Benediction of Noise

So here’s my benediction, my blessing for anyone still reading, still listening, still wondering if it’s worth it:

  • Buy the ticket.
  • Count the moments. 
  • Travel wide.
  • Ignore the noise. 
  • Live the life you actually want.

Don’t wait for perfect timing. Don’t wait for enough money. Don’t wait until you feel ready. You won’t. You never will.

Life isn’t lived in readiness. It’s lived in risk.
It’s lived in the pit. In the encore. In the ramen shop. In the airplane confessional.
It’s lived wide open.

And the more you lean into life, the more it leans back.

The Final Chorus

So, sing until your voice breaks. Travel until cities change you. Collect moments that make your chest ache in the best way. 

  • Let strangers become choirs.
  • Let grief become testimony. 
  • Let noise become medicine.

Because immortality isn’t measured in years. It’s measured in echoes. In memories. In the sacred hush before an encore when the whole room believes together.

That’s the chorus I’ll keep singing until my lungs give out. That’s the equation I’ll keep solving one pit, one city, one lyric at a time.

And when the lights finally come up, when the night really does end, I hope the echo will linger long enough for someone else to remember:

We were here. We sang. We lived wide open.

Pack your bags, grab your ticket, let's go! 

Catch you in the chaos,
Haha Bailey

Next Post: Brian Wilson, 1942-2025: A Tribute from Music Travel Repeat
Previous Post: Seether In Seattle: A Musical Homecoming For The Restless Heart

Meet Haha Bailey

Haha Bailey of Music Travel Repeat

Haha Bailey writes about the miles between people and the songs that help close them. His words live where music and memory meet. Read more of his stories on The Restless, The Hopeful, and The Broken.