May of last year, I became a girl again—
not one I’d been before,
but one I met for the first time,
bejeweled in a New Jersey parking lot,
singing with lungs
too used to holding apologies.

When the stadium lights dimmed,
we stood at the blockade,
a constellation of strangers orbiting
the same star.

It was the closest we’d ever come
to being fully ourselves—
sparkling, loud, unabashed,
together.

We were women relearning how to be girls,
unfolding ourselves in a carpark,
peeling back layers of too-muchness
we’d been taught to hide.

The years had pressed us quiet,
shrinking us to fit spaces
meant for us to be seen,
but never felt.

But here, under the floodlights,
we found permission in the shimmer—
sharing shorthand glances
and whispered secrets that sparkled.

Someone spilled a White Claw;
someone else sipped their heartbreak.
We nodded solemnly at both,
because ravishment and sorrow
need no explanation here.

The music reached us on delay—
her voice traveling not from the stadium,
but from the sky,
echoing just far enough
to feel like it already belonged to the past.
We sang anyway,
daring it to catch us.

There was glitter on the asphalt,
scuffed into galaxies
by the soles of cowboy boots and Converse.
We spun and swayed like children unlearning shame,
our bodies moving freely,
finally forgetting how they’re supposed to look.

A security guard, middle-aged, glowing white bob
mouthed All Too Well like a prayer
she’d carried for years,
her female gaze—
not surveillance, but sanctuary—
the kind women save for each other
when the world isn’t watching.

She nodded as we screamed the bridge,
her eyes sparking,
as if unearthing something long-buried.
In that moment,
we were all the same age.

On the upper balcony,
a silhouette waved—
a shadow carved by backlit glow,
as if the universe greeted us by name.
We waved back,
because what else do you do
when kindness feels that big?

The glint and glimmer turned
strangers into sisters.
We clapped for the ones who ran to the gates,
even two hours in,
hands clutching miracle QR codes.

We whooped for them
like it was our own triumph,
because it was.
Together we're storming the barricades
of a revolution made of rhinestones.

Someone spun with their arms wide,
spilling bliss into the night.
Someone else stood still,
eyes closed,
holding the weight of a lyric
they didn’t know they needed.

It wasn’t just a concert.
It was a reclamation—
a bead-strewn riot of tenderness,
a reminder that we’re allowed to take up space,
to hold everything,
to feel it all at once—
even if it's messy,
even if it's ugly,
even if it spills like light too wild to gather back.

A woman with long braids
and Bluetooth speaker in her Hi-Vis vest
blasted Fearless at the station,
while directing us to our trains.

We sang it back to her,
off-key but perfectly in sync.
Joy spreads like stardust,
and what else can you do
when you’ve carried something
so vast,
so bright?

For once,
the world paused—
not as an audience,
but as something softer,
a witness to the sound we made.

We were there.
It was rare.
I'll remember it.