February 8, 2020. A Saturday night. My daughter and I drove into Brooklyn to go see Thrice and mewithoutYou at Brooklyn Steel. Going to concerts was something we did often together, and something I started to take for granted. This was just another in a string of shows we had tickets for that stretched from the past fall until June. I had recently overcome a terrible fear of crowds and crowded places and a hesitancy to leave my house and, enjoying my newfound bravado, I didn’t want to miss a thing.

We gathered for this show knowing very little about the virus that was seeping into the news lately. It was something foreign, abstract. We paid little attention to it. So we collected ourselves in this small space, about 1,800 of us packed together to enjoy some live music. mewithoutYou were great. Thrice were amazing. I remember between sets a girl tapping me on the shoulder, saying she had noticed a picture of my dog, a miniature schnauzer, on my phone screen. She took out her phone and showed me her dog, also a miniature schnauzer. I remember my daughter running into a former coworker and we chatted for a few minutes with him. I remember feeling exhilarated while the bands played, feeling alive and in the moment, enjoying the scene for everything it was worth.

I’d missed so many shows in the past, concerts I bought tickets for and then opted out at the last minute because my anxiety wouldn’t let me go. Through therapy and a lot of work, I was…