My first Burning Man was a life-changing moment, even more so now that I look back eight years later.

I first heard about Burning Man in 2014 during lunchtime discussions at work. At the time, I thought it was a wild festival where hippies partied hard with blasting music. I wasn’t into that, so it didn’t interest me. But in 2016, when my friend Rahul asked if I wanted to go to Burning Man, I said let’s go. I don’t exactly recall what made me curious then. Maybe it was because so many people were absent from work that week, and there was a noticeable drop in the number of commits. Some even said that you had to visit all the popular brunch spots in San Francisco during that week and skip all the lines.

After getting our tickets, our next task was to find a “camp” at Burning Man. Camps are smaller communities within the city where members live together and provide the infrastructure needed to survive the harsh conditions of the Black Rock Desert, such as shade, water, and showers. My friend Rahul and I were looking for a camp that was welcoming to newcomers, and we came across “Anat’s Love Camp” based in the Bay Area. It was a “theme” camp with about 100 people, featuring a DJ stage for music and fire dancing.

There are hundreds of theme camps at Burning Man, each bringing gifts to the city based on their camp’s theme, which they call “interactivity.” For example, food camps offer all kinds of food, from raw tuna to whole roasted pigs to raw coconuts. Yoga and healing-themed camps provide massages, saunas, and workshops that can be very intimate. Sound camps bring massive sound stages, big-name DJs, and non-stop music.

The unique aspect of Burning Man, unlike other festivals (disclaimer: Burners consider calling Burning Man a “festival” sacrilegious), is that everyone participates in building the experience together. No one is paid to work for you. You start participating when you join the camp, even months before the event. Months before August, we went to Hayward to meet with the camp leads, James, Jose, Doug, and Big Sexy, to offer our help. They asked us to build a stage on top of a pickup truck.

On the second day, I became the master sander and sanded every piece of wood on the deck. Another day, we went to James’ house to clean the dust off the tarp and felt the first hint of the uncomfortable playa dust on our hands. After we finished, they realized I didn’t have suitable “clothing” for the burn, so we went to a local Goodwill. Jose pointed to all the tight, shiny, and leathery vests, leggings, and jackets and said, “This is Burning Man.”

The most fun experience was when we visited American Steel to weld the main flaming gate of a camp using a pipe that channels propane gas. I never knew so much cool stuff existed in West Oakland.

Reaching Black Rock City, the temporary city where Burning Man takes place, was quite a trek. I rented a car from SFO, but the counter explicitly stated, “No rentals for Burning Man.” So I fibbed, telling them I was driving to San Diego. It took nearly a day and a half to reach the line in the Nevada desert, or “playa” as Burners call it. We parked our car in what seemed like an endless lot, and the party kicked off right there. People leapt out, sharing beers, hugging, and shouting, “Welcome home!” Home? Yes, to Burners, the playa is home.

It was already dark when we finally reached the entrance. A guy greeted us and invited us to leave the car. As we got out, he asked me to ring a bell, shout, “I am not the _bu_rgin anymore,” and roll several times in the dust. After this indescribable first contact with the alkaline playa, I felt surprisingly clean—despite the dust now coating everything in the car.

As we drove in, the scale of the whole city became apparent. Through a sea of bicycles, tents, and massive structures adorned with twinkling lights, I realized how immense this place was. On our first night, we biked out together, and I felt like a tiny spaceship floating through a vast galaxy of dazzling lights. The sheer number of people, bikes, and art cars was staggering. The actual scale of it all surpassed anything I had imagined.

Since my friend Rahul couldn’t go last minute, I shared my giant canvas tent with Andy, who came without a place to stay (and of course, he was as Burgin as me). Having someone who was just as confused as me about what I was supposed to do gave me a sense of relief. As we started rolling off to explore the city, everything became invisible, including my hand in front of my face with the dust storm.

Miracles happened every day. On the second day, Steve and Matt—campmates I’d befriended because they lived across from my tent—and I biked far out to visit the blacksmith to forge steel necklaces. On the way back, Steve’s bike broke, and we had to walk for hours across the vast desert. We were hungry and tired. There was nothing around us. Then, I saw a light coming towards us, and we walked towards it. It turned out to be a pancake stand run by a girl and her dad. I loved watching her take orders from strangers and own the whole operation, probably spreading a whole bottle of Nutella on my panini. Under the full moon, with this kid in the flow of making pancakes for strangers with so much joy, flashing lights and lasers in the background, and a bunch of stranded strangers becoming friends—it was a moment that existed only at that precise time. I knew I’d never be able to experience it again. We call these serendipitous moments “playa provides.”

At first, I felt disconnected from everyone else. Everybody seemed to be having the time of their lives, doing what they’d looked forward to for an entire year. They were chasing their desires in a city where anything could happen and everyone was on holiday. As Doug—one of the camp leads—said, “People here just bring and build to show cool stuff they love.” The playa brought an infinite number of imaginative creations to life. Some you’d experience firsthand, others you’d hear about like legends from your campmates and friends. These moments were unique—never to be found again, as if they’d never happened. Until that point, I’d never defined what I truly desired in life beyond the typical—work hard, fulfill career goals, raise a family. I’d never really asked myself what I wanted to do if I didn’t have to chase those conventional achievements.

But at Burning Man, I repeatedly connected with people who genuinely wanted to know me. I even received heartfelt motherly advice from moms at “Mom Camp” about the struggle I had at the time with my family. I embraced the freedom to be a version of myself beyond my job, origins, or appearance, asking for the first time, “What’s it like to be honest with myself and others?” The connection formed through hugs, laughter, and crying during the week made me realize the universal struggle we all face: to be understood and supported.

I pushed myself hard because I could you can dance for hours to fire dancers and huge art cars with blinking lasers all night long and kept finding arts and workshops that caught my eye. Yet, at some point, I had to realize that my body needs rest, and even without breaks, I can’t possibly experience everything. If I don’t take care of myself, I’ll grow irritable and close off my mind. I learned that I must let go and practice self-care to stay curious and open-hearted, as this experience lasts only a week. Because it’s just one out of 52 weeks in the year and we cherish our time there so much, everyone tries to bring their best selves—though sometimes our worst sides emerge too. When I asked my friend Cody “why he goes to Burning Man,” he said he goes there to gauge how much he’s grown over the past year. I go there to understand this balance—to take in the full experience while also taking care of my need to stay the best version of myself I want to be.

But the biggest lesson I learned at Burning Man was the value of giving and communal service. At Burning Man, there’s no division between consumers and creators—everyone co-creates together. Yet, as in any human society, some contribute more than others. During my first Burn, I noticed “camp dads” constantly maintaining things and fixing infrastructure that struggled in the harsh climate. On a scorchingly hot day, Jose was drying a tarp full of dirty water and scraping it to pack it up. I asked Jose why he was doing this instead of having fun drinking a martini. He replied, “This is what I do. This is what I do to keep this place amazing.”

As an adult, I realized I’d never given to others without expecting something in return. I couldn’t understand why veteran Burners put themselves in these positions—some even jokingly called it their “working man” instead of Burning Man. After my first Burn, inspired by this spirit of giving without expectation, I volunteered with Shanti, an organization providing caregiving for terminally ill people (more story to follow on this).

After returning from this magical place, I was exhausted and needed a couple of weeks to readjust my mind. I wasn’t even sure if I wanted to experience it again. But as I settled back into everyday life, my perspective shifted. I began to appreciate what I’d taken away from my time at Burning Man. The “untz untz” music started growing on me. I found myself seeking opportunities to serve people in our community. Eventually, I returned to Black Rock City as a Greeter, eager to bring my favorite people to this magical place.