I’m back from Burning Man. After almost two weeks in the desert it feels weird to have things like electricity, running water, and fresh food. The whole thing is a pretty incredible experience; the effort required to participate in Burning Man is huge; 20+ hour car trips, the requirement to pack in and out everything you’ll need (food, water, shelter, clothing, tools), and then living in one of the most driest, hottest, and inhospitable places on earth. For the final two days I had perhaps 2 hours sleep per “night”, half of which was on a thin, dusty rug, and the other half was awkwardly stuffed into a car-seat that didn’t recline.

These are conditions where people should be absolutely miserable. But they’re not. Burning Man is an incredible explosion of human creativity and joy. I had a finalist from MasterChef cook me an amazing meal, and insist that I return for more. I had a girl stop by when I was giving out coffee, and spent the morning listening to how her sister was fighting cancer; by the end she was crying with joy because her sister was winning that fight. We shared the most incredible hug, and celebrated the strength of the human spirit. I’ve been immolated with a fireball while wearing a aluminum suit while dancing in front of a huge crowd of people. I walked to the temple in the middle of my night, wrote a huge note to mom on one of the walls, cried my eyes out for a couple of hours, walked back to my tent through hellish, freezing duststorm, and then watched the whole thing burn with a crowd of thousands of other grievers a few days later. I watched one of the world’s best scientists give talks on using fungi to break down oil spills, remove radiation from soils, and treat cancer. I rode on a huge boat blasting electronic music that sailed across the desert. I stopped by dozens of people who were having a hard time to make sure they were okay, and to help them if they weren’t. I watched a group of fire-swizzlers outside a sound camp with a sub-woofer so impressive it caused the dust to lift from the ground. I cycled past a roller-disco filled with smiling people grooving to Rick Astley. I fixed countless people’s backs and shoulders. I helped construct and deconstruct infrastructure, both for friends and for strangers. I stood under an incredible steel disco-ball, studded with lights, and entirely covered with toothbrushes. I danced to Rocky Horror songs while wearing a labcoat and balancing a pancake. I moved building materials across the desert by balancing them on my bicycle. I discussed spirituality, ethics, neuroscience, feminism, statistics, and countless other topics with friends and strangers alike. I made a guy named Van Allen extremely happy because I commented that his parents must be scientists, and nobody ever gets his name. I saw the sun rise while sitting on top of a piece of art and then watched the most beautiful clouds drift across the sky. I slept in a ball-pit. I saw friendships made. I saw friendships lost. I participated in one of the most extraordinary events on earth.

Burning Man changes people. One thing I always find when returning is that whatever problems I had when I left don’t feel that hard any more. The difficulties found back in the default world seem like very little compared to the harshness of the playa.

I don’t recommend Burning Man to everyone, but I can’t imagine not going back next year.