This past week, I wrote about how my trip to Burning Man was a mess. Not entirely my own doing (the majority of it was due to the weather), but I deleted the post and took some time to let things marinate a bit more. The entry felt fractious, borderline antagonistic.
I had a conversation with a close friend about why I returned (and why I go, and why I want to go, and would I go again). I had conversations with veteran Burners, and the sentiment that this year sucked on a few levels revealed itself to be mostly universal. Concurrently, I had the same conversation with my family, albeit in a slightly more contentious manner, primarily due to their concern and my own insecurities about their judgment. I engaged in brief discussions with friends and coworkers, most of whom were only curious about the gory details. I saw all the (expected) new burner postings about the “transformative” experiences they had, with very few speaking to the demoralizing conditions. I spent most of this week having some serious conversations with myself and friends.
Going to BRC doesn’t have to mean embarking on some grand existential quest. However, I think many people use it as a form of escape, introspection, outward expression, and/or a genuine desire to connect. I’m still trying to figure out what it means for me, and I’m realizing that if it weren’t Burning Man, it would be something else.
So this entry isn’t entirely about my trip.
The past ten years have been a doozy and something I’ve talked about before. I suffer from fairly intense bouts of depression, which existed well before the implosion of my life in Oregon, but grew way more intense after. COVID exacerbated it further, as did my weight gain during that period (which piled on my preexisting body dysmorphia as a professional performer). However, nothing has inflamed my depression more than work, and I rarely acknowledge it. Unlike most adults, I have not jumped from one corporate job to another. My pathway toward where I am now is a mixture of survival, savvy, right-place-right-time, and luck. Yes, I have learned a great deal, if not an MBA equivalent, along the way, but I absolutely do not have a traditional background. The older I get, the more I understand how that inhibits my own “professional growth”, barf.
However, the past decade has been a classic case of fight or flight. I could have easily stayed in Oregon, ran the bar I opened, and made a life sans my ex. But I didn’t. I knew emotionally that I needed more, and I needed distance from what felt like the ground zero of a poor life decision. My decision-making process was rooted in survival, not thoughtful choices. I took the first job I could get, and since then, I’ve felt like I’ve been trying to make the best of a pathway that could have been more calculated, introspective, and considered. The past (almost) seven years at my current job have had a ton of incredible growth and some success, but I can’t lie, most of it has been survival. What I have missed out on and have been playing an exhausting game of catch-up, is the active denial of my own creative curiosity and owned authority.
I started scratching that itch five years ago when I began making playlists, two years ago when I started this Substack, and professionally at work, when I leveraged the sweat equity I had amassed over a few years of grueling work to transition into a creative position. That shift and role were never overtly announced (mostly direct to clients), never updated on my LinkedIn, and I’ve been relatively low-key about it because being a suppressed creative has an entirely separate laundry list of neuroses, most specifically crippling self-doubt and ego-busting. All of the above was by choice — I’ve been afraid to admit what I am.
But the unhealthy decisions I’ve made regarding my own survival have not only calloused; they are infected and cracked. I’ve blamed a lot of things on my unhappiness: my weight, my current job, my last job, my dating life, my friendships, but I’m finally coming to grips with the actual saboteur — my desire not to own who I am wholeheartedly and actually invest in it. My imposter syndrome should be studied.
It’s not that I was unaware of the possibility, just genuinely terrified by it. I’ve spent years comparing myself to others, watching their success blossom because they leveraged their desires and talents at the right place, at the right time. With all the decisions I’ve made, I’ve found myself in a mostly stable, mostly financially healthy place. Stability is great, but it doesn’t pay the emotional bills if there is no outlet. What’s the point of being a creative tourist?
So, I won’t deny it further: Hello, my name is John O’Malley, and I’m a creative.
So, back to Burning Man. My gut reaction is that I invested in all the wrong things. I didn’t intend to, but I ended up spending more time than planned on supporting the operations of our camp. I’m ultimately not bitter towards the effort, but candidly, who wants to spend their time off investing in others’ enjoyment rather than their own? The balance was off, and I felt trapped by my obligations. More so, it felt like my job — a place where I invested more in maintaining stability than my own creative investment or output.
Burning Man felt like work this year, and not just in a circumstantial way, but more like my everyday life. I stabilized more than I created. I felt burdened by my obligations and commitments. The energy I had left was spent siphoning inspiration from others in some feeble attempt to justify the expense.
A highlight from the Burn is that I noticed an overall improvement in the quality of art, and I spent the majority of my time exploring it. I imagine lots of artists and creatives took 2024 off after Mud Burn and were recovering. Last year, my bike and my own limitations prevented me from exploring as extensively, so I made an effort to see as much as I could. I was very inspired by the builds, the creativity, the technical prowess, the intentions, the surprises, and the sheer gumption it took to erect art in the middle of a hurricane.
One night, I considered how my burn might be different if I created something. Something that gave me purpose and joy. Something that brought someone else joy—the conversations I could have with them. The introspection someone else might have when seeing an expression of my creativity. Not out of jealousy, but more so, knowing that I gave myself enough that others truly consider it.
It made me incredibly sad and made me think about how much of a tourist I’ve become in my life. I’m just visiting my creative potential. Trapped by a series of ill-considered decisions I made a decade ago, disguised as stabilizing actions, that have led me to this place. I imagine it will take a while to grapple with how I can right my wrongs and start being more radical in my own self-expression. There is one thing I know: I’m utterly exhausted by my status quo.
So, I’m using this recap post about my trip to address something larger: I am no longer interested in being a tourist in my own creative expression, for myself and the world around me. I’m no longer interested in passively experiencing my own life. I’m no longer interested in sacrificing my expression for a sense of security that we all know could be gone in an instant, no matter how hard you prepare.
Nothing could have prepared me for the 60mph winds that had me on the ground in the fetal position literally minutes after I arrived, but I’m taking them as a foreboding warning. Our time here is limited. Live in the moment, do what brings you joy, and express yourself authentically. Otherwise, you’ll be stuck cleaning up the mess.
Hi John O’Malley, Creative. It’s lovely to meet you.