On the ride from the airport to the Airbnb, I finally had a moment to think about what I wanted to accomplish on this trip. The days leading up to it had been so busy that I hadn’t had time to prepare mentally. I’d only bought my flight the night before, caught an early morning departure, and before I even had time to look forward to the trip, I found myself standing in New Orleans. New Orleans has a reputation for its improvisational music, and I decided that if I managed to do only one thing this trip, it would be to experience the live music scene for myself. Growing up, I’d had very few memorable live music experiences. I’d been to a few concerts, but the music never moved me, and the venues always made me feel like I was watching fish in an aquarium—entertained, but detached. Aquariums are beautiful, sure, but they’re nothing compared to swimming in the open ocean. That perspective changed last summer when I saw Sum 41, The Offspring, and a few other early-2000s bands in San Francisco. That show was pure magic—something you can’t describe without having lived it. The crowd became one living, breathing organism. I felt at once entirely alone and deeply connected to everyone around me. It was like a collective pulse, a shared heartbeat. Since then, I’ve known I couldn’t recreate that exact moment, but I’ve had faith I could find something like it again. After arriving at the Airbnb and meeting Mike’s friends and the other groomsmen, we decided to grab dinner at a bar on Frenchmen Street. As we walked, the city hummed. Every open doorway spilled sound—horns, drums, voices blending in wild, effortless rhythm. Each time we passed one, a blast of energy hit me like warm air from an oven, and I had to fight the magnetic pull dragging me toward the music. Still, I kept walking with the group. After dinner, we wandered back down the street and ended up at 30/90. It was only about 7 p.m., still early, and the crowd was thin—most people sitting quietly, drinks in hand. I leaned against a wall near the bar, unsure how the night would unfold. The music was good, and as usual, the drums stood out to me. I watched for a while, content to observe from the edges. Eventually, someone in our group bought me a drink, and a table opened up near the front. Now I was surrounded by the sound. The beer loosened me up, and I began to feel the current pulling me in. It was as if I’d been standing at the edge of a pool, and now my feet were in the water. The bass rippled through the floor, nudging my body into small, involuntary movements. No one was dancing yet, but you could sense the tension in the room—like everyone secretly wanted to dive in. Deep down, I think we all feel that urge. Little kids feel it so strongly they sometimes jump before they know how to swim. But as we grow older, we learn to fight it. We convince ourselves that staying dry is better than swimming. Yet the moment you hit the water, that lie dissolves—like dropping a heavy backpack after a long hike. The relief is immediate and real. I stood there, tapping my foot, thinking about all the times I’d resisted that simple urge to dance. How many perfect opportunities had gone to waste because I was too caught up in my own hesitation? Was tonight going to be another one of those nights? Then I noticed Stella. She had jumped in. At first she danced alone in front of the stage, but soon a few strangers joined her. She’d been asking us to dance with her earlier, but it was clear she didn’t need anyone’s permission. She just wanted to share the joy. Watching her, I realized that freedom doesn’t need an invitation. If she didn’t need permission, why should I? So I made up my mind. I’d count to three, and when I reached three, I’d stand up and dance. One… Two… Three.