Parenting
Amidst my disbelief, I tried to explain who Sarah McLachlan is.
“Oh, right,” she replied, nodding slowly. “I think my best friend’s dad was selling some tickets to that concert.”
Oh, the horror.
Sarah McLachlan—the voice that scored my turbulent high school days, the artist who assured me that I wasn’t alone during the chaotic years of college, the creator of my all-time favorite Christmas album, and the songwriter whose love ballads for her children I now share with my own kids. Sarah McLachlan has been the constant soundtrack of my life.
But here I was, facing the stark reality that my 18-year-old babysitter had no clue who she was. Talk about a wake-up call.
I straightened my back, glanced at my husband—who generously agreed to join me for her concert—and marched toward the car with renewed determination. “I am definitely not old,” I reassured myself. “These fabulous new shoes from… well, DSW, and this shirt I got from… okay, Belk. But still, I AM NOT OLD.”
When we arrived at the theater, it hit me: this wasn’t just any venue. It was an elegant theater, complete with plush red velvet seats and assigned seating. As I surveyed the room, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being—well—old.
Surrounded by middle-aged couples enjoying a night out, I noticed men in jeans and easygoing collared shirts, avoiding eye contact, while women, also in jeans, buzzed around in various black tops. I even spotted some older couples—men in jean shorts and sandals, women in those draped blouses from Chico’s.
Despite the age demographics, I felt a glimmer of hope: at least I wasn’t the oldest there! But that realization only deepened my sense of being past my prime.
The only young face in the crowd was an 8-year-old girl, attending with her mother. Is this what Sarah McLachlan has become—a concert for mothers and their daughters?
Suddenly, fatigue washed over me. It was well past my bedtime, my feet ached from the heels I hadn’t worn in months, and I longed for the comfort of my sweatpants and a good book. Yet, with red wine in hand, we navigated to our seats.
As the lights dimmed, Sarah stepped onto the stage without an opening act, and the music began. In that instant, age faded away.
Her voice enveloped me, and I was transported back to my youth. I remembered the heartache of being uprooted from my arts school, the passion I poured into my dancing in that dim racquetball court while Sarah’s CD played on repeat. I recalled the drive down I-85 after a breakup that felt like a band-aid being ripped off, belting out lyrics alongside her as the wind whisked my sorrows away.
Throughout the evening, as Sarah navigated through her discography and my memories, I experienced more than just nostalgic moments. I was that college girl again, grappling with her place in life, huddled in her tiny dorm room, enveloped in confusion. I felt the exhilaration of receiving my diploma, the world stretching out ahead of me.
As the night unfolded, the beautiful piano melodies reverberated through the theater, and I found myself in tears. I reached out to my high school self, whispering, “Don’t worry. Your journey is wild and wonderful, and if I told you where you’d end up, you wouldn’t believe it. Just trust that everything will work out. Now, sit back and savor the music.”
The night, as all perfect nights do, concluded far too quickly. Feeling stripped yet re-energized, I climbed into the car, the child seats in the back reminding me of my present life. On our way home, my babysitter asked, “How was the show?”
“Amazing! You really should give her a listen sometime.”
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In summary, embracing the nostalgia of our youth can invigorate us, connecting us to who we once were while navigating the challenges of adulthood.
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