life
Let’s get the hard part over with: talking about pain makes people uncomfortable. And talking about chronic pain makes people really uncomfortable. Chaz Cardigan’s A Year In Glassland isn’t a record about pain; it’s a record about being a person who has pain.
Read MoreToo loud; too quiet. Too sensitive; too harsh. Too anxious and restless; too depressed and lazy. Too this, too that – too much, too much, too much. I’ve been called all of these things, and it’s true - I am A Lot. It turns out I have ADHD, but I didn’t learn this until not quite 2 years ago – so for the first three decades of my life, I was plagued by the knowledge that I was, indeed, Too Much.
I was drawn to Walk The Moon’s music because everything about it, like everything about me, screamed “too much.” With Walk The Moon, “too much” wasn’t a bad thing – it was celebrated. Here, there was no being stuck in your head with worry – here, you’re pulled out of your head and into your body to enjoy, life, feel the moment. Their music makes me feel like I’m on top of the world, even in life’s dark moments.
Walk The Moon recently announced their hibernation, and I’ve been feeling sentimental as I think about so many wonderful memories I have around them and their music. How they’ve made me feel like I could fly when I wasn’t sure I could walk. How they’ve made me feel like being “too much” isn’t a problem – it’s something to celebrate. Below, read through some of my favorite Walk The Moon memories.
Sometime in the fall of 2014 – I’m driving through the suburban NJ town I grew up in with the radio on (my car at the time didn’t have a working CD player, nor did it have a place to plug in an aux cord – so radio it was), and I hear “Shut Up and Dance” for the first time. Wait a minute – Walk The Moon, isn’t that the band with that “Anna Sun” song? I look it up when I get home – it is. I listen to Talking Is Hard on repeat; it’s catchy, it’s upbeat, but I’m not sure I get it.
April 2015 – I get an email with a last-minute confirmation: I have a ticket and photo pass to photograph Walk The Moon at Terminal 5 in New York City! I had no idea what a treat I was in for when I walked into the venue that night. As a photographer, I love the vibrant lights on stage; as a writer and a human, I love the stories vocalist Nick Petricca tells between songs. In particular, the meditation before “I Can Lift A Car” grabs me – it gives me a sense of ecstatic joy and makes me feel powerful, like I could do anything. I get it now: I walk out carrying with me a sense of peace and magical energy, and a comfort that it’s okay to be weird. I walk out a Walk The Moon fan for life.
January 2016 – I’m packing my bags to leave for tour – four months on the road, driving across the country and back again - and as I’m getting ready, I make a “driving” playlist on Spotify. I choose songs I knew I’d never skip, songs that could fit any mood. I put the entirety of Walk The Moon and Talking Is Hard on there, and wonder if my tour mates are familiar.
May 2016 – We’re in Long Beach, California and tour is nearly over. I’m driving the van and by chance, just as I turn onto the Pacific Coast Highway – craning my neck, wondering when I’ll get a glimpse of the ocean – “Anna Sun” comes on. I hadn’t queued it up, but I guess Spotify’s randomization is on my side; everything is beautiful and everything is perfect.
June 2016 – My brother and I are traveling through Thailand together; he’s just finished teaching English, and I’ve just finished my spring tour. I’m fascinated by how different everything is from anything I’ve ever seen; overwhelmed in the most positive way at the realization of just how far from home I am. We ride a moped from Kanchanaburi to Erawan falls; we stop to eat som tam (papaya salad) that’s impossibly spicy. I listen to “Anna Sun” as we watch the sunset over the water in Koh Samui. On an overnight bus traveling to yet another town, I fall asleep listening to “Iscariot.”
September 2017 – It’s here, it’s here, it’s here. Walk The Moon releases “One Foot”, the first taste of What If Nothing – and my first time hearing new Walk The Moon music as a diehard fan. I read the press release and I’m already enthralled at the concept of this album. I watch the video and decide I need to visit Joshua Tree someday. I send the video to my boss, a big Talking Heads fan; “I like Walk The Moon!”, he tells me.
October 2017 – I feel a ball of nerves building as I email Walk The Moon’s publicist: I’d like to write a review of What If Nothing; would it be possible to receive an advance copy? She responds promptly that she’ll send me the advance the week before the album release; I agree to publish my review the week of release.
November 2017 – On a Friday, I arrive in Dallas, Texas for a conference, where I meet an internet friend for lunch. When I get to my hotel room, I see an exciting email: the advance copy of What If Nothing is waiting for me in my inbox. I listen while I get ready for the night’s networking event; I tear up when I hear “Tiger Teeth.” I listen again and take notes for my review. On Saturday, I listen again in between conference events, and begin drafting my review. On Sunday, life takes me on an unexpected ride and I’m back in Deep Ellum, getting a tattoo for an album that won’t be released for six more days. On Sunday night, I cry again to “Tiger Teeth.” On Monday, I finish my review while stuck in the Minneapolis airport on my way home.
January 2018 – It’s a frigid day in New York and I’m bundled up in my winter coat as I make the short walk from Penn Station to the Hammerstein Ballroom. Once inside, I head downstairs to the bathroom, where I make friends with a few girls who are doing their face paint. I ask if they mind if I take some photos; they agree, and we exchange Instagram handles. I head up towards the photo pit where I see some friends. I knew the show would be special, and it’s just as magical as I’d hoped.
Later in January 2018 – I’m so proud of the photos from the Hammerstein Ballroom show; I debate ordering a canvas or maybe a framed print with my favorite photo of the evening. Instead, I order this custom woven blanket.
April 2018 – Anxiety is hitting me hard. I try and I try but I can’t keep from ruminating; I think of Nick’s passion for yoga, and wonder if it would help me. I start seeing a therapist and I begin practicing yoga at home – once or twice a week at first. I have no idea if it’s helping, but I keep doing it.
June 2018 – Walk The Moon is on tour opening for 30 Seconds To Mars. At the last minute, I buy a pair of tickets to the show at Madison Square Garden, in the nosebleeds; no one wanted to come with me. I force myself to stay off my phone, save for a quick photo and video of the band; the thought of facing the truth (and the heartbreak that’d surely instill) made me sick. I leave after their set to get dinner from a vegan restaurant I like. The next day, they’re playing at PNC Bank Arts Center in Holmdel, New Jersey. I’d bought a (more expensive) ticket for that one, just a few rows from the stage. I was spiraling, sick at the truth in front of me, and had a panic attack when I got to my seat – sobbing, crying, hyperventilating. One of the ushers brings me a water bottle and some paper towels to use as tissues. When Walk The Moon comes on, I feel like I can breathe again. I’m able to pull myself out of my head and into my body, as Nick would say.
September 2018 – My heart is broken. It had been slowly chipped at for nearly a year and finally, there it was – smashed, shattered, beaten into smithereens. I listen to What If Nothing on repeat, in hopes I can make some sense of the sadness in my heart and the unknown ahead of me. I wonder if I’ll ever get through this pain, if I’ll ever be the same.
Later in September 2018 – I haven’t been able to sleep in a week; every muscle in my body is tense. I make myself dinner and it’s a toss-up whether I can eat more than a bite or two. I decide that I need to make yoga more of a routine and commit to doing it a few times a week.
October 2018 – A friend is hosting a Halloween Party; I decide to dress up as “Walk The Moon”. I wore a “Walk The Moon-inspired” outfit, copied Nick’s face paint from the “Anna Sun” video, and carried around a cardboard “moon” on a dog leash. My friend pulls me aside shortly after I arrive to ask how I’m doing; I tell her the angry version of the story. The sadness lays deeper inside me. I eat pizza, cookies, chips (thank god I have an appetite, at least). My costume is a hit.
December 2018 – I find myself at an ecstatic dance party in Amsterdam. The whole concept of ecstatic dance seems very WTM-esque, if you will; I put on some face paint before I go. A very, very handsome man starts dancing with me; I can’t bear the thought of dancing with anyone that isn’t that one, and I leave the event in tears. I get fries on my way back to my hostel; I never cry about that one again.
January 2019 – I’m learning to breathe again, starting to see some light. I commit to doing yoga every day. With oddly perfect timing, Walk The Moon releases “Timebomb”: “when your heart opens, it’s like I’m ready to fall again.” I’m able to see that I’ll get there, too.
February 2019 – I drive to New Haven, Connecticut, where I meet up with an internet friend to do our face paint. We sit in a Starbucks near the venue and discuss what might be on the set list. They play “Tiger Teeth”; I cry through the whole song. My friend tells me she’s going to stay late to try and meet the members of the band, and invites me to join her. We wait outside the venue when I realize I don’t have anything for them to sign (my ticket was digital). Another fan is there with her boyfriend; he had printed out his ticket, and happily gives it to me. I ask Eli what I’d have to do to hear “Iscariot” live (he tells me: “go to a show in 2013”; I laugh and groan). We wait a long while to meet Nick; my feet are freezing in my boots. I tell Nick that I cried during “Tiger Teeth”; he puts his hand on my heart and says, “thank you for sharing that.”
Later in February 2019 – I’m on a roll with my writing and photography career! I take a half-day from my day job, and take the train into New York City to head to a record label office where I’ll interview two artists I’m really excited about. While waiting on the subway platform, I listen to Talking Is Hard. And I dance. I’m dancing on the subway platform again; my heart is healing.
April 2020 – Nick goes Live on Instagram and asks for requests. I comment “The Liftaway”; he plays the intro and first few lines. Okay, it’s not the full song – but it’s enough to get me excited.
November 2021 – Out of nowhere, my knee pain gets bad. I go to orthopedic urgent care in the suburbs, then get an MRI downtown. Heights comes out; I listen for the first time on the way to my follow-up appointment with the orthopedist. I’m scared; I don’t know if it’s worse to hear “you need surgery” or “you’re not a candidate for surgery.” This album helps me make sense of the unknown, and feel okay with it.
November 2022 – Walk The Moon are on tour celebrating the tenth anniversary of their self-titled album; they livestream the show in New York. I live in Philadelphia now, and I’m struggling hard with frequent migraine attacks, orthostatic intolerance, and intense fatigue; I can’t even dream of making the trip to be there in person, but I watch the livestream while eating Chinese food on my couch. I get up and dance a few times. They play “The Liftaway” (the whole song!), and I shriek in excitement.
Later in November 2022 – It’s Thanksgiving Day; I’m in Los Angeles for the holiday. I start my day by taking a yoga class on the beach in Santa Monica. Making small talk with the gentleman next to me, I mention Walk The Moon and Nick’s studio, Kundalini Yoga By The Sea. I tell him about how meditative a Walk The Moon show is; we talk also about EDM and how a rave can be its own form of meditation. After class, I drive in my rental car up the Pacific Coast Highway and blast “Anna Sun” – on purpose this time, and it’s just as magical.
June 2023 – I move to Los Angeles; two days after I land, I borrow my brother’s car and – again – drive up the Pacific Coast Highway blasting Walk The Moon. My dog is snug in his carrier next to me. I can’t believe how beautiful the view it is, and how close it is – because I live here now.
July 2023 – Walk The Moon announces their hibernation. I’m deeply sad – this band has given so much to me, and it aches to know there won’t be a tour or new record any time soon. I’m grateful, though, for all they’ve given me. I make an Instagram post; shortly after, full of words to say, I begin writing this blog post.
As I pull out my phone to write this blog, I'm in an Uber coming home from seeing A R I Z O N A at the Mann. It's Thursday, May 11; the time on the driver's clock reads 9:27 (my phone says it's only 9:22), and as I clutch the shirt and hoodie I purchased, I think back to the night I've had. I'm deliriously happy – it's spilling out of me - and I've had the time of my life.
This entire week has been awful. Nothing has been going my way, and on Wednesday, I had the worst headache pain I'd had in a while. The pain was blinding, burning nerve pain that radiated from the base of my skull up along my scalp. Heating pads, stretches, muscle relaxers – nothing was helping. Why does my head hurt so badly? I flashed back to winter and felt sick, reliving the trauma. A bad nightmare rearing its ugly head, my mind spiraled: Have I gone through all this physical therapy and trialed all these medications for nothing? Will I ever find true relief? Will this ever end?
When I woke up the morning of the show, my head felt fine, but my mind was stuck in the same dark place: will going to the show worsen my pain? Will it be too much activity, too much sound and light, too much time on my feet? Will my heart race uncontrollably, will I have to sit down or risk nearly passing out? Will I regret going to see A R I Z O N A? I had seen the band once before, in 2019, at The Filmore in Philadelphia. They were headlining that night, and I interviewed them before the show (in 2020, I got interviewed about that). I'd been thinking about that show ever since – how much fun I'd had, how it made me fall in love with A R I Z O N A's music even more – and despite my fears of feeling unwell, I knew I couldn't miss this one.
Walking towards the entrance and through the gate, I could feel my heartbeat getting faster and my body nudging me to sit down. As I climbed the stairs, I could feel my heart racing, beating faster than it had recently (I'm on medication for this – what's going on?). I quickly ate a salt packet and drank a Gatorade; as soon as I could catch my breath, I went to the merch booth and bought an A R I Z O N A shirt. Making my way to the crowd, I was happy to find a spot that wasn't too packed. God, I need to lie down. I laid down on the turf for a few minutes, praying my heart would slow enough that I could comfortably stand to enjoy the show. I prayed I'd be able to be on my feet, that my body would cooperate.
After Julia Wolf's set, I made my way closer to the stage. It's here; it's happening. I'm about to see A R I Z O N A again. Zach, Nate, and David took the stage, opening with "Freaking Out," and I found myself thinking back to the summer of 2020 when I'd first written about the song. At that time, I'd been plagued by debilitating "sleep issues" that seemed to have no answer. And in 2022, as I went to visit after visit with a sleep specialist and did two sleep studies, the mystery around my insomnia only grew. I feared that I was crazy, that my inability to get a restful night of sleep was my fault somehow. Now, I'm pretty close to an answer (no, it's not "anxiety"), I've finally learned what I need to do to fix my sleep, and I feel fucking free. I lost myself in "Freaking Out," feeling so connected to the music that I couldn't tell if there were five people or five thousand around me – all that mattered was the song being performed just a few feet before me.
I guess you could say I was practicing mindfulness. But the thing about mindfulness is that when you're in pain, it is really hard. Because pain – especially bad headache pain – takes over everything. It messes with your mind, and you can't enjoy the moment; all you can do, think, and feel, is pain. I was desperate and willing to try anything. I tried drug after drug – four different migraine preventatives, three different triptans, two rounds of steroids, a short course of an anti-convulsant, and plenty of NSAIDs – and got nowhere. In January, after 53 days of being at a constant level 9 pain (I'm saving "level 10" for pain that knocks me unconscious), I got nerve blocks – numbing medications injected into my scalp. The next day – day 54 – I breathed a sigh of relief, thinking the worst was over. Only it wasn't quite over. Soon enough, my pain was back up to a level 8, and I was finding it impossible to hold out hope that things might get better, that I might finally find relief.
It was February 8; I wondered if I should give up, if it were time to accept that this pain was my life. Is it even worth it to try anything else? Is the heartbreak of another method of relief failing even worth the potential that it might help? I wanted to get better, but I could barely get through each day. I dreamed of going to shows but could hardly wash the dishes or cook dinner. It all seemed so out of reach. And then, on February 8, A R I Z O N A released "Moving On." The timing was perfect – "We'll be alright if we just keep moving on, keep moving on, keep moving on," Zach chanted in the chorus. Okay – I'll keep trying. If I keep trying, if I keep moving on, I'll be alright. The next day, February 9, I had my first physical therapy visit – I was given some stretches to practice daily and felt immediate relief from my pain. There was surely a long road ahead, but maybe things were finally looking up.
Cut to three months later, at the show: a few songs into A R I Z O N A's set, I realized I didn't have a headache. I reveled in the moment and thanked whatever spiritual being was looking out for me. I looked up at the stage, recognizing the opening notes of "Moving On," and the lights shining on Zach, Nate, and David shone like a clarion call directly to me: there is a light at the end of the tunnel, and it's right in front of my face. The performance of "Moving On" could've lasted three and a half minutes or an entire lifetime, a lifetime I continued to soak into over the following few songs.
When the band began playing "Still Alive," my chest burned so heavily with relief, I thought I was hearing things; after all, this was a song I'd turned to many times when I needed a reminder that I could get through this, and the timing felt like it was made just for me. Now, it felt like a celebration. From November till March, I was just existing. The pain in my head and neck was so bad, I was a shell of myself. I'd cry to myself at night: I miss living my life. This pain has taken over everything. I want my life back. And now, thanks to a new migraine preventative - Ajovy, the fifth one I've tried - and continued physical therapy, I'm getting my life back. I'm here, I'm alive, and I'm listening to one of my favorite bands play one of my favorite songs. "Still Alive" is a proclamation of triumph through adversity; if the members of A R I Z O N A can get through the experiences that inspired the song, I can get through this. As they played "Cross Your Mind," I thought back to the first time I'd heard that song in 2018. I was fixated on someone that didn't even matter. I was a year out from knee surgery, and I took for granted that I could exercise, go to a concert, and go grocery shopping without pain. Now, I don't take any of that for granted because I know how easily it can be taken away from me.
After toasting to their new album release – just a few hours away – Zach told the crowd they'd be playing a new song. There's something so special about your first exposure to a song being hearing it live – I couldn't believe I was so lucky. Introducing "Graveyard," Zach explained that the new album, A R I Z O N A, is about "perspective" - and at that moment, I felt I had all I needed. The sun had set, and a refreshing breeze was coming in as he sang of a place fit for kings and queens. The song filled the blood in my veins, and I was completely entranced. A R I Z O N A is more than a band and this night is more than a concert – this is everything.
Sitting in that Uber on my way home, my feet were sore from standing in impractical shoes. But… I was able to stand for the show – something that wouldn't have been possible a few months ago when my orthostatic intolerance was untreated. And… I didn't have a headache by the time I got home. It's Friday evening as I finish writing this, and I don't have a headache now either. This doesn't mean I'm cured – but it does mean I'm getting better. And realizing that I really, truly am getting better feels all the sweeter now because of what an amazing time I had last night.
It feels like the past year hasn't happened.
As I write this, it's September 2022, two weeks after I turned 31. And I feel like I didn't even live the year of being 30 years old. My energy shifted so much from exploring music and working on various creative projects to focusing on my health and managing pain, which has sometimes been unbearable. Has any time even passed? All my attention has been on my body and health – what about my life?
I don't know who I am right now or what I'm "doing" or what my purpose is. In 2018 – seven years into my writing career – I dove in harder than I ever had in hopes of avoiding my emotions. Then something incredible happened: it seemed to pay off. I was forming relationships with publicists at top labels, artists I loved and writers I respected liked my work, and most importantly, I felt something: I was proud. I was grinding, pushing out feature after feature all while working a full-time job and being active in volunteering. Writing became more of who I am than it ever had been. It all felt worth it, until one day, it didn't.
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There's nothing like spending the day in good company. I've had my fair share of adventures in life- some of my own choosing, some that were thrust upon me without my knowledge or willingness- and while I'm always happy to come away with a good story, it's the people I spend my time with that leave the biggest impact. At the end of the day, the people we meet and choose to spend our time with are far more important than work or money or anything else.
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