My desire to isolate manifests itself in so many little ways, and not just at Burning Man. It’s every time I decide to stay in when someone invites me to hang out. It’s every time I leave the bar to go smoke a cigarette outside. It’s every time I go straight home from work instead of seeing if a friend wants to grab a drink. It’s every time I leave my friends at a show to go “wander around.”

I don’t ever expect to understand where this impulse comes from, because it directly contradicts my extroversion. I am sure that it developed for some self-protective reason. I know it serves a purpose, and I would never want to get rid of it entirely. It’s brought me many great things and is a salient part of who I am. But I started thinking that maybe, I had been granting that side of me a bit too much power for a bit too long.

I didn’t want to be alone in the cold. So I tearfully made my way back to the sound camp I was at (Camp Questionmark, if any of you burners are curious), because I saw a crowd of people dancing and laughing and enjoying themselves, and even though I had no assurance that I would find my friends in there, it was worth a shot, and even if I failed, being around strangers was still better than being alone. And what was important to me, at that point, was the mere act of seeking other humans.

Walking back to that camp was difficult. I kept finding myself dipping into the crowd, then impulsively retreating back into the darkness, without even really deciding to. Forcing myself, repeatedly, to then make my way back into the sea of people was a struggle.

This was in part because the DJ (Phutureprimitive) was really, really good. I knew that if any of my friends were listening, they would be having the time of their lives dancing to this, and for me to approach them in my current state would be tantamount to saying, “Hey, can you leave this awesome show and come comfort me instead?”

I will be candid: Convincing myself that my friends would, in fact, be happy to make such a sacrifice for me, because they care about my well-being more than they care about catching a good DJ, was an incredibly difficult thing for me to do. I don’t know why — but as soon as I realized how difficult this seemingly-simple task was, I knew that I had to do it. I had to recognize both my own self-worth and, equally, my value to others. And I guess the only way you can really do that is to tell yourself, over and over again, that you are loved, and that you are lovable.

I meandered through the crowd, disoriented and distraught, and tried to process all of the emotions I was feeling. It must have been obvious that I was having a hard time, because a stranger suddenly came into my field of vision, looked me in the eye and asked if I needed a hug. I nodded and she wrapped her arms around me, and I sobbed into her arms. She held me tight.

The love and generosity of strangers at Burning Man is staggering. After a few minutes, she told me that she wished she could stay but had to find her friends. I thanked her profusely and watched her walk away.

A minute later, she returned with a friend, and they both gave me an even bigger hug.

“You are very loved,” one of them said.

The generosity and love of strangers at Burning Man is absolutely staggering. These people didn’t know me. They had no idea what I was going through, or why. All they knew was that I was a human in a rough place, and they dropped everything — in 34 degrees cold without the wind chill, by the way — to help me out of it. Non-sexual human touch is so powerful, and it’s so undervalued in everyday life. I can’t put into words how much these two beautiful people helped me by extending their arms. I won’t forget that hug for the rest of my life.

After they left, I kept looking for my friends. I knew I might not find them, but what was important to me was that I was looking for them, as opposed to isolating myself by choice. Eventually, a new DJ came on who wasn’t quite as good, and I started getting tired. I started thinking how, while the kindness of those strangers was touching on a level I’d never before experienced, I needed to be around my friends. That meant that I needed to go home.