Velvet cake and paper confetti. Splashes of champagne and skies soaked in sunlight. Disposable cameras bearing witness to the making of eternal memories. Fistfuls of glitter, eager to erupt — like clouds on the verge of bursting, metallic rain drenching us in joy. Gaga and Gloria, glaring from afar. And balloons, dozens of them, floating in their fullness — their colors so rich they could make LA’s brightest rainbows blush.
In the week leading up to my 31st birthday, visions of celebration looped in my mind like a flickering highlight reel. I imagined the six of us together in the desert, dancing beneath the moonlight, toasting to another trip around the sun — as if wrapped in a festival-induced fever dream. And with each forthcoming moment I pictured, our weekend drew nearer, just within reach.
The colors of my daydreams were so vivid that when I caught my reflection in the mirror, the white hairs peeking back at me looked suddenly out of place. As I dressed for our drive — frantically rummaging through my closet, packing everything from beach balls to bandanas — I paused to take in the strands of silver along my temples, their shimmer catching the sun in ways I hadn’t noticed before. And as they gazed back — fragments of myself cloaked in maturity yet stripped of pigment — I felt an odd sense of surprise. Something like the warmth of seeing an old friend after a long time: fondly familiar, yet unmistakably changed.
Time and time again, I’d hear about this very feeling — the wonders of our thirties, the unexpected epiphanies of aging. Friends and family promised me that this chapter would feel less like the passing of time and more like a joyride of discovery. By now, we’ve wound our way through the maze of our twenties, reaching firmer ground on the other side. We begin to meet a version of ourselves that’s both lighter and more resilient — shedding the armors of our past as we bare our skin to the light of new possibilities (or our hair, for that matter). Missteps have been made — with a youthful arrogance that once made us feel invincible. We danced the line between insane and inspired, only to find ourselves somewhere in the purgatory of it all. And now — now, we look back, hopefully made better by our mistakes, celebrating the parts we carry forward and honoring the pieces we leave behind — dancing on new territory, on new lines we have yet to discover.
While the tales of our thirties encourage me to flip the page with pride, the signs of aging staring back at me are a part of the narrative I never expected to see so clearly — a footnote in life’s script, quietly tucked in the margins. As I packed the last of my essentials into my duffle, I found myself combing carefully through the fine print, standing at a crossroads of identity — at the intersection of past and present — and soon, the 101, where Indio, California, awaited. Bags packed, car loaded, eagerness brimming, we set off for Coachella — tie dye tanks and white hairs in tow.
Windows down, sunroof open, Sunset Boulevard unraveled before us — and the breeze I’d promised our resident New Yorkers rushed through, warm and chilling in the same breath. We glided through WeHo, the world unfolding into a moving collage of palm trees and possibility — the city softening behind us with each mile. The music wove through our laughter in perfect harmony, and the rhythm of the road pulsed in our veins — as if disco were a blood type.
As we continued, I pointed out local hotspots, sharing bits of the city with Jordan and Serena as we made our way to the desert. (That’s the beauty of welcoming friends from out of town — you get to see your home through fresh, curious eyes, and suddenly, even the ordinary feels a bit more magical.) I proudly pointed out the Viper Room and Whisky a Go Go, landmarks gleaming with iconic history and endurance — until we stopped at a site that no longer carried the same glow. Sunflower-yellow awnings wilted over an empty patio. White tables and chairs were stacked haphazardly in a corner, huddling under the shade, while traces of letters lingered on the exterior where the marquee for “Le Petit Four” had once gleamed.
The iconic French restaurant was a gem of the neighborhood, beating at the heart of Sunset Plaza for decades. Once a buzzing European-style bistro, it gathered locals together to toast moments as simple as surviving a weekday — because there and then, making it through a Monday was reason enough for steak frites and a martini.
I sat there as a kid, time and time again, for everything from small bites to big celebrations. Proudly perched at the table, head high, I’d order my favorite: penne with white sauce and a lemonade. I’ll never forget the pure delight I felt with each bite — savoring the cream, relishing the ritual. (Sometimes I wonder what that kid with the napkin tucked into his collar would think of the adult he’d grow into, and the spot he’d claim for himself at the table). Eras later, and just days before our trip, Le Petit Four closed its doors — evolving from eaterie to artifact, a vibrant memento of my yummiest days.
After what felt like an eternity navigating my nostalgia, the light finally turned green — and we left Sunset behind for starlight. Six hours and countless freeway sing-alongs later, the desert turned to dusk, and we arrived at our house in Palm Springs. We pulled into the driveway, our voices softening — the day’s electric energy settling into something more serene. Inside, we reunited with the rest of the group, and soon after, Jordan, Serena, Roxy, Emily, Phil, and I found ourselves outside — feet in the pool, heads in the clouds — sharing our hopes for the weekend: the costumes Gaga would don, the blazing anthems Zedd would drop, the looks we’d sport, and the euphoria we prayed would possess us.
Dawn finally dazzled us, and Coachella morning rose from its slumber — radiant, renewed. I woke to the cracks and creaks of the house — a quiet symphony of sleepy friends stirring awake. But once everyone peeled themselves from their pillows, the stillness shattered, and the festivities ignited. Corks popped, mimosas multiplied, and soon enough, we were off — stepping onto the festival grounds like it was our birthright.
The festival came alive, our weekend unfolding in a cascade of color and chaos. Rainbow streamers hung in thick bunches above us at one of the stages — a lush art installation swaying in the breeze like vibrant sea kelp adrift in the Pacific, blooming and breathing with the tide of the music.
Before I knew it, Jordan hoisted me up onto his shoulders, lifting me high above the crowd in the Sahara tent. I soared over a sea of bodies, the desert sun wrapping around us like a second skin. For a moment, it felt like I was Poseidon of the dance floor — ruler of this roaring, glitter-drenched kingdom in the sand. Below me, fans clacked against the bass, snapping in rhythmic applause as if thanking the EDM gods for such glory. And around me, waves of laughter, song, and sweat tangled in the air, sweet and unbothered as the beat anchored us. (Somehow — as I was floating in the sky — I had never felt more grounded, more free).
Later, sparkle and sunblock were passed around like Coachella currency. We slathered our arms, our shoulders, our cheeks — smearing one another in layers of shimmer and SPF, giggling as the lotion pooled in places it wasn’t meant to. Every streak of sparkle felt like warpaint, marking us for the music — while every booming chorus felt like a victory cry.
As sundown slowly approached, we collapsed onto a patch of grass near the Mojave tent — a heap of limbs, laughter, and leftover dust, resting in rapture. We lay there, heads tipped back, letting the melodies around us vibrate through the soles of our feet, through the spines of our bodies — until we could feel the music echoing inside our bones.
Eventually, we ascended from the ground, wiped off our knees, picked out blades of grass from our hair — dry shards of brown and green caught between strands of black and ivory. Together they wove a tapestry of festival magic lived, and wicks of wisdom earned — until night struck, and the glow of the moon veiled us all in silver.
I’m not sure if it was the spell of the full moon or the buzz of my third margarita — but for some reason, in that moment, I thought of the boy from the French restaurant. The kid who yearned to sit with the grown-ups and eat his penne — shy yet boastful, timid and determined. As the years pass and we get caught in the rush toward adulthood, we become fixated on securing a seat at the table — or at least I did — making sure we carve out our distinct space in the world for others to notice. (Who would have guessed that the brink of 31 would be when you learn to roll in the grass — to feel humble and confident enough to simply fade into life’s festivals.)
As the night deepened and the stars stitched themselves across the sky, Roxy and I broke into a sprint. Fans clutched in one hand, water bottles swinging in the other, we chased the next set, the next song, the next feeling — all while chasing nothing at all. We darted through neon and night, our shrieks of ecstasy trailing behind us like confetti. Without a second thought, we flowed through the fields, running after each other just for the thrill of it on our way to the next tent. Tripping over our own feet, barefoot and breathless, we howled at the moon, hollered at the heavens — as one song spilled into another.
Perhaps that’s the thing about music festivals (and celebrating your birthday, for that matter). It’s these moments and milestones, flickers of vibrance nestled in the noise, that don’t just remind us we’ve lived; they affirm that we’re alive. Seconds that stretch into centuries in the timezones of our souls, the ones that breathe life into our growth — holy and raw, messy and sacred.
As I gazed up at the ceiling of the sky once more, Coachella felt like the perfect place to embrace my next year of life — a living, breathing testament that we are always somewhere between the stages, between the songs, between the versions of ourselves we’re still discovering.
Maybe that’s the art of it all — learning to move through the in-betweens, to dance when the lines blur, to celebrate the white spaces. The white sauce I once savored now lingered in the silver threading through my hair — hues and textures evolving with age. But perhaps it’s in the white spaces — in the quiet gaps scattered across the sands of time — that we unearth our most colorful selves. Maybe the blank spaces were never blank at all. Maybe they were canvases all along — daring us to color them alive.
