I found out that I went viral from my neighbor’s daughter.
“Hey, Mom—isn’t this your friend Tina? She’s gone viral on TikTok.”
I assumed she was messing with me. Then the link arrived. And the screenshot. The shirt and the hair were unmistakably me.
Here’s something you may not know about me—or my husband Paul. We’re die-hard, old-school ravers. We love EDM, and with the right DJ, we can dance non-stop, and I mean non-stop. A rave is one of the places we feel most in flow. No thinking. Just moving.
A few minutes later, another text landed.
“Did you know you and Paul are going viral?”
My stomach tightened. I braced myself for the online comments. Age jokes. Snark. Becoming the punchline.
And it was absolutely the opposite. The comments were (and still are) warm. Generous. And deeply kind. As we scrolled, we found ourselves feeling touched. Mostly younger people, I imagine—twenty-somethings—writing things like:
“Vision board.”
“I love them. Living life no matter their age.”
“If that’s not my husband and me in 30 years, I’m not getting married.”
“I see my future, and it’s bright.”
Somehow, we were inspiring.
That part wasn’t entirely new. When we go out dancing, people often comment on our “energy.”
“I hope I’m like you when I’m your age.”
“I wish my mom and dad were like you two.”
“You’re adorable.”
We’ve learned to hear the sincerity underneath the comments. And maybe the quieter story: At a certain age, you’re not supposed to move like this. Or feel like this. Or let yourself go.
Truthfully, when we dance in big crowds— often 20-50,000 people—the people who look our age can be harder to spot. But they’re there. Forties. Fifties. Sixties. Seventies, and yes, eighties. I’ve talked to them myself with the same admiration a 20-something talks to us. I promise all generations are there.
We’re there to dance.
We’re there to move.
What we realized, watching the responses roll in, is that people weren’t reacting to us. They were responding to freedom. To presence. To a lack of self-consciousness. To joy without performance.
One comment read, “They were in front of me in line, and they were so fun.”
As if being alive, that unguarded, was surprising. As if it’s something people don’t get to witness very often.
Going viral ended up being genuinely fun. Paul and I laughed a lot. And we felt deeply heart-warmed by the kindness. I’m still a little baffled. The numbers keep climbing. I gotta believe there are far more interesting things to look at than two OG ravers dancing their hearts out.
And yet, I became aware of what might be at risk for them.
I didn’t grow up with a camera on me at all times. The many moments I made a fool of myself in college were never recorded. They became stories, not scars. When they were over, they were over.
I didn’t have to worry about embarrassment going viral.
My heart aches when I imagine what that’s like for younger generations.
It aches when we’re at concerts, and I see a sea of people standing still, phones raised—proof they were there—while missing the experience itself. Present in body but not quite in presence.
When the DJ drops the beat, something else happens for Paul and me. Thought dissolves. The beat guides the next move, and the next, and we move until the DJ decides to go home. I’m grateful for that capacity. To surrender. To release worry.
To be carried by the wave and the rave. There’s nothing more magical than tapping into the collective field of an amazing rave. Music is my drug of choice.
I hope others—especially those who are younger—get to feel that kind of freedom too.
Put on the music.
Close the door.
Dance at home.
And if you’re from my generation, you already know the song.
Dancing with Myself.
Hit play.
Get to it.
