Written by: Allison Toth

When I was six years old, I found out I loved to sing. When I was ten years old, I found out that Santa wasn’t real. When I was fourteen years old, I found out that I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. 

I was always an eccentric kid. Picture me: lopsided pigtails, knee high socks, and a fuzzy journal constantly clutched to my chest. There was nothing that felt better than creating, and you could always find me drawing, writing, dancing, or exploring new ways to express myself. I was unashamed of myself and didn’t mind my quirks. That was, until a psychiatrist sat across from me in a cold, sterile office before listing off every single neurosis he observed in me. In that moment, my life’s mission switched from creation to correction.

After my formal diagnosis, I spent the next decade trying to ‘fix’ myself in any way I could. I devoured every book, blog, case study, and podcast I could find then dove into support groups and collecting healthy hobbies. I started therapy by 16 and medication by 18 to manage my symptoms, and I threw myself into support groups, healthy hobbies, and anything else that was shaped like a life raft. 

I had an insatiable desire to change every strain of my DNA and to become someone else, because deep down, I believed that I was broken. Defective. Too much. My depressive episodes were all-consuming and left me buried under a pile of blankets in my bedroom for weeks at a time. I wanted to get better and to feel like myself again, but I had no clue what that looked like.

In 2022, my life pivoted. A group of friends called me the night before a local festival and asked if I had any interest in joining them. Since I’ve always found joy and freedom in music, I was an enthusiastic yes, despite feeling nervous about the brand-new experience. 

People were buzzing with excitement from the moment we arrived. Despite the pouring rain, we spent the entire day dancing and splashing through the festival grounds without a single care. I distinctly remember strangers coming up to me all day to compliment my outfit or give me a little trinket. The interactions I had were random and serendipitous – a group inviting me to play Uno at their campsite at 2 in the morning, randomly ending up in the VIP area, and spending an hour talking to a vendor that happened to be born on the exact same day as me.

My inner child felt safe, and for the first time in years, I didn’t feel like I needed to hide myself. In fact, it was the opposite. Seeing so many people in their authenticity challenged me to seek the same experience. The energy of the rave community was electric, and I felt immediately at home which was not a very common experience for me at the time.

Festivals have given me the ability to feel the highs and lows while simultaneously allowing them to move through me rather than constantly suppressing them. They’ve shown me that I’m allowed to experience pure joy in the present moment without ruminating on my past and all of the ways I’ve fallen short throughout my life. Festivals taught me that happiness doesn’t have to be complicated. It really can be as simple as someone handing you a rubber ducky wearing a hat or inviting you to try out their flow toy.

Raving has become a cornerstone in my wellness journey. I can’t overstate how healing dubstep, lasers, headbanging, and yes—even a good glizzy—can be. EDM is uniquely accessible. You don’t need a prescription or an appointment. Just open Spotify or YouTube, and the magic is right there.

Sometimes at festivals, I feel so happy that I legitimately start crying, and you know what? I’ll never feel weird about it, because I looked for this kind of happiness and belonging for *years*. I looked in partners and substances and unfulfilling jobs but ultimately, it was the dance floor that brought me back to myself. Once I began raving regularly, I started to notice small shifts in the way I moved through my life. I was smiling at people in the street again and getting excited about little things like waking up and getting ready for the day or making something new for breakfast.

Living with mental illness often feels like an endless rollercoaster—soaring highs, crushing lows. But at festivals, I get to press pause. The only thing that matters is the music, the moment, and the people around me.  

I kept taking my meds and going to therapy, but I stopped trying to ‘fix’ myself. I shifted from ‘how can I be better’ to ‘how can I live better’, and the answer was simple – I just needed to allow myself to accept my own love without conditions. Over time things stopped feeling bleak, and I stopped feeling ashamed. I found some of the greatest friendships I’ve ever known, and I uncovered countless hobbies related to raving – flow arts, blogging about fests, content creation, and educating people on harm reduction.

Festivals may not be able to rid you of mental illness or past trauma, but they offer an unparalleled opportunity to heal and learn to love yourself along the way. Festivals remind me that not only is it possible for me to enjoy life while I’m healing, but it is essential to my growth for me to keep experiencing life. You can read every self-help book and try every type of therapy that exists, but if you don’t know how to have fun and like yourself – you’ll never find the peace you’re seeking. 

Happiness isn’t about becoming perfect. It’s about deciding who you are right now is worthy of joy, peace, and fulfillment. Healing happens faster when it’s rooted in self-love—not self-rejection.

So yeah—I love my therapist. But honestly, Subtronics and Svdden Death have done just as much for my mental health as years of CBT, DBT, and EMDR. The growing pile of wristbands on my nightstand reminds me: every time I follow the bass, I find another piece of myself.