I caught Mumford & Sons at CU Boulder's Folsom Field over the weekend—the fourth Mumford concert my neighborhood friend group had attended together. We drove up and tailgated, then danced in the upper bleachers with a view of the packed stadium stretching below us, light displays blooming across the darkness, sound system vibrating through our chests. As we moved—some of us dancing, some swaying, all of us singing along—I thought about how many blog entries these lyrics have anchored over the years. "Hopeless Wanderer." "Awake, My Soul." "Roll Away Your Stone." Words that helped me survive my autoimmune crash and emerge on the other side, reminding me that I wasn't alone in my darkness.
The joy of watching live music outdoors, singing with thousands of strangers, watching the sky transform from clear to sunset-mottled to opaque, pushed me to buy tickets for another show—close to home at Fiddler's Green, where Aden and I will see Lord Huron tomorrow night. Then Noah Kahan at Mile High Stadium a month later. The summer stretches ahead, energizing and creatively freeing, my personal playlist.
Spotify identifies my musical taste differently, though. While my listening generates youthful feelings inside, the algorithm has identified a women's anthem mentality and started feeding me song titles like "Crone Era (Psychwitch)," "Cinderella Snapped (Jax)," and "I'm that Witch (Esme Rose)." Surprised at first, I found myself liking the lyrics and added them to my 2026 playlist.
Last weekend, driving my kids and a friend home, "Crone Era" came on. I laughed and asked them whether Spotify had it right. Our friend turned serious: "You've got at least twenty years before your crone era, and you'd need a hefty dose of magic to qualify." So, not quite a crone then.
That same day I saw a meme with women my age dancing at a formal event. The caption read: "If you see women in their 50s dancing, let them. They've spent thirty years taking care of everyone and now it's time to let loose."
This felt true. My children have become capable adults—usually more capable than I. Rob and I often find the house to ourselves. The years of constant vigilance and scheduling and worry have finally exhaled. And somewhere in that exhale, I discovered I could sing in the car without self-consciousness, dance in the stadium without checking who was watching, twirl in the bleachers like I'm not being observed—because I'm not. Or more accurately, because I've stopped performing for an audience that no longer exists.
The freedom feels earned. Not reckless, just honest. The voice I'm using now—singing Mumford & Sons lyrics at full volume, swaying without apology—this is the voice that survived thirty years of holding it in. This is what it sounds like when you finally decide you're done asking permission to take up space.
Maybe the crone era joke lands differently when you understand it's not about age but about power—the power that comes from having nothing left to lose, from knowing exactly who you are. From dancing like no one's watching because, in the way that actually matters, no one is. Just thousands of strangers at a concert, all of us singing the same song, and that's enough.
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