You know how sometimes you hype something up so much in your head that there’s no way reality could ever live up to it? Yeah, that’s what I thought was going to happen when I finally got tickets to see Pearl Jam in Miami. Except it didn’t. It was every bit the glorious, nostalgic, goosebump-filled night I hoped for—and maybe a little sweaty too (because, Miami).
It’s wild how music can take you straight back in time. One guitar riff and suddenly I was twenty again, driving with the windows down, convinced I was deep and mysterious just for liking lyrics that didn’t totally make sense. Seeing them live all these years later, surrounded by thousands of people screaming the same words, felt like catching up with an old friend who still gets you, even after life’s turned you into a responsible adult who carries Goldfish crackers in every purse.
The concert was packed, of course. Everyone from twenty-somethings trying to act cool to dads in vintage tour shirts who clearly left the kids with grandma. Rex, bless him, isn’t exactly a concert guy—he’s more of a “sit by the grill with a beer” kind of guy—but he came along, partly because he loves me and partly because he knows I’ll talk about it for months either way. He even got into it after a while, though his “dancing” was really just head bobbing with commitment.
There was this moment during “Better Man” when the entire stadium sang louder than the band, and I got full-on chills. I looked around and saw strangers hugging, swaying, maybe crying (or maybe that was just the humidity in my eyes, who knows). It hit me then—this wasn’t just a concert. It was a collective memory, a shared pulse of people who’d carried these songs through breakups, road trips, and late-night kitchen sing-alongs.
And you know what? For one night, I wasn’t the mom reminding everyone to wear sunscreen or eat something green. I wasn’t the one packing lunches or refereeing toy disputes. I was just me—singing off-key, laughing too loud, feeling that electric buzz that only live music can create.
It’s funny how moments like that can shake something loose inside you. I spend so much time in mom mode that I sometimes forget the parts of me that existed before—before routines and PTA meetings and bedtime stories. That night reminded me they’re still there. Still alive, just waiting for a guitar solo to wake them up again.
The next morning, I had no voice and sore feet. The boys thought it was hilarious that I went to a “grown-up concert,” and Nico asked if Pearl Jam plays any “real songs.” (I told him they absolutely do, but he’s not ready for that level of greatness yet.)
Back in the chaos of regular life, the laundry piles, the school drop-offs, it all feels a little more manageable when you’ve had a night like that. Something about screaming lyrics into the Miami night sky just resets you.
So maybe the “event of a lifetime” doesn’t have to be something huge and perfect—it can be one night of music that shakes the dust off your soul, a reminder that you’re still allowed to be the person who dances, sings, and feels completely alive.
And if you can do it under the Miami lights, surrounded by strangers who somehow feel like friends, even better.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to see if Pearl Jam has tour merch in kid sizes. I have a feeling two little boys might need matching band tees for their next beach day.