The playlists are loaded.

The tents are packed.

The air smells faintly of sunscreen, possibility, and maybe beer.

Festival season is here.

And while festivals often get reduced to outfits, music line-ups, and dust in inconvenient places, anyone who’s been to a good one knows: there’s something much deeper going on.

They’re not just events. They’re temporary tribes.

A kind of sunburned social experiment where people, whether arriving in tightly coordinated groups or loose, spontaneous solo missions, come together and form something resembling a community.

A moving, breathing, dancing little village. One where conversations flow faster, connection comes easier, and the rest of the world fades into the background.

We are currently living through a loneliness epidemic, so maybe we need to look to unexpected places for the antidote.

Less Curation, More Connection

I recently read a piece on Substack titled “What The Cool Girls Are Quietly Doing Right Now…” and I haven’t stopped thinking about it.

According to the author, the new cool isn’t filtered selfies or curating your life into bite-sized squares, it’s being weird. Messy. Fully yourself. Less online performance, more actual presence.

I thought: “Finally. My time has come.”

Because the truth is, many of us are tired.

Tired of digital connections that don’t quite land.

Tired of always being “available” but somehow rarely feeling seen.

Tired of talking about loneliness like it’s a personal failure instead of a cultural condition.

Festivals, strangely, offer a counterculture to all that.

They’re not polished.

They’re not always comfortable.

But they are real. You’re in it together.

You wake up next to people you didn’t know two days ago and share breakfast.

You dance with someone you’ll never follow on Instagram but will remember forever.

You lose your voice, find your rhythm, and feel like maybe, just maybe, this is what community was always meant to feel like.

The Festival as Temporary Village

There are festivals that lean heavily into community-building, where everyone contributes, co-creates, and maybe even washes the compost toilets together. (Respect.)

But even the less intentional ones carry this tribal undertone.

It’s in the shared rituals, the glitter application, the water refills, the silent head nod to the guy who always ends up dancing next to you. (I love your shirt stranger!)

And for someone like me, an expat, often building my social world from scratch, I find this both fascinating and oddly comforting. Because most of modern life doesn’t offer this.

We live in boxes.

Work in boxes.

Sometimes think in boxes.

But at a festival, the walls come down.

You’re not your LinkedIn profile. You’re not “just visiting.”

You’re part of something.

Even if only for a weekend.

Micro-Moments That Matter

It’s not always about making lifelong friends, though that happens too.I’ve met people in the middle of a dancing crowd who are still in my life years later. People who’ve shaped me, challenged me, and reminded me how absurdly wonderful it is to be human together. All from a shared moment that could have ended with the last beat drop – but didn’t.

But even the short connections matter.

The spontaneous laughter.

The shared sunscreen.

The moment someone pulls you into a dance circle and for ten minutes, you’re completely, shamelessly free.

And yes, here it comes, science again. I know, I know. But hear me out.

Neuroscience shows that these fleeting social bonds, the quick chats, the knowing glances, the “you good?” from a stranger – actually regulate our nervous systems.

They’re called “short bonds”, and they’re like little neurological espresso shots of belonging.

They reduce stress.

They signal safety.

They remind us that we’re not just lone avatars navigating the algorithm, we’re real people, in real bodies, needing real connection.

And in a time when we’re more digitally connected and physically disconnected than ever, those little moments aren’t just cute.

They’re our medicine.

So What Are We Really Showing Up For?

Some come for the headliners. Some come for the hedonism. But many of us? We come for the people.

For the girl in the glitter boots who offers you dry shampoo on day three.

For the campfire conversations that get a little too deep.

For the unspoken feeling that you’re not alone here.

And maybe, in this weird moment in history, that’s what we need to design for more intentionally, not just in festivals, but in cities, workplaces, and daily life. The structures that make connection more likely. That encourage community to form in unexpected places.

Because loneliness loses its grip not through perfection, but through the power of belonging.

Let’s Wrap This Up

Festivals aren’t a fix for the loneliness epidemic.

But they’re a potent little rebellion against it.

A spark of togetherness.

A place to get weird, get free, and remember that community isn’t always built – sometimes, it just happens.

So if you’re heading off to one soon – maybe slightly stressed, overpacked, and operating on a suspiciously high cortisol level – just know this: the moment you get your first smile or a “hi” from a stranger across the festival grounds, your nervous system will thank you.

And as someone who’s danced in a lot of fields, and written (a lot) about the loneliness paradox and our need for real connection, maybe this summer is my chance to turn the lens inward.

To treat it as an experiment. Not in whether connection happens (I know it does), but in how it feels to arrive alone.

To let go of the plan, the people, the safety net, and trust that the tribe will still find me.

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Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s this: they’re already out there.

Waiting for me in the field, with glitter and open hearts.

And then, suddenly, I'm not alone anymore.

I'm part of the tribe.

Dust and all.

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Lots of love,

Stina

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