I Blacked Out at a Rave and Woke Up in a Tree
- By: Amanda Coscarelli
This story has been submitted by a LOOP reader…
The last thing I remember clearly is neon. Not metaphorical neon—actual, retina-burning lasers slicing through fog while a DJ screamed something about “one more drop” like it was a threat.
Someone handed me a warm can of something citrusy and alcoholic. Someone else painted glitter under my eyes with a finger they’d just licked. I felt invincible in that very specific way you only feel when the bass is rattling your organs and no one you know from real life can see you.
Then—nothing.
No dramatic fade to black. No warning. Just a hard cut, like my brain got edited by someone with zero respect for continuity.
When I came to, my first thought was: Wow, the ceiling is really detailed. My second thought was: Why does the ceiling have leaves?
I tried to sit up and immediately panicked because the world swayed. I was cold. My arms were wrapped around something rough and wide, and when I looked down, I realized I was hugging a tree trunk like it was a life raft. Not leaning against it. In it.
I looked down again, slower this time, afraid my eyes were lying to me. The ground was very far away. Like, drop-your-phone-and-it’s-gone far away. I was at least 30 feet up, wedged between branches, one sneaker dangling off, the other somehow still laced tight.
I was at least 30 feet up, wedged between branches.
I screamed, but it came out as more of a confused yelp. A bird flew away, offended.
Panic arrived late but aggressively. How did I get here? Did I climb this tree? Was I chased? Was this a game? A ritual? A test? My phone was miraculously still in my pocket, 3% battery, 17 unread texts. The most recent one, timestamped 3:42 a.m., read: “Where did you go??”
Same question.
As my memory began to leak back in pieces, it got worse, not better. Flash: me dancing barefoot in the dirt because “shoes are a social construct.” Flash: me arguing with a guy in LED goggles about whether trees could feel energy. Flash: me declaring, very confidently, that I’d “always been good at climbing.”
I am not good at climbing.
I checked myself for injuries while trying not to look down again. A few scratches. Glitter everywhere. No broken bones. Somehow, no broken dignity—yet. I attempted to climb down, but the second I shifted my weight, my hands slipped and my stomach dropped into my throat. Gravity was very real up here.
That’s when I heard voices.
A couple walking their dog stopped beneath me. The dog saw me first and lost its mind, barking like it had discovered a cryptid. The couple followed its gaze upward, their faces shifting from confusion to concern to the kind of amusement you can’t even be mad at.
“Uh,” the guy called up, shielding his eyes. “Are you… okay?”
I considered lying. I considered pretending this was intentional. Instead, I said the truth: “I don’t know how I got here.”
My hands slipped and my stomach dropped into my throat. Gravity was very real up here.
They called festival staff, who called someone with a ladder, who called someone else with a bigger ladder. By the time I was escorted down, wrapped in a thermal blanket like a hungover burrito, a small crowd had gathered. I refused to make eye contact with anyone, especially the tree.
Later, safely horizontal and sipping water, I learned I’d wandered off from my friends sometime after sunrise chasing “better vibes.” Apparently, I’d last been seen heading toward the woods, shouting that I needed to “reset my nervous system.”
Mission accomplished.
I went home with dirt under my nails, glitter in my hair, and a brand-new rule: if the party starts feeling spiritual, it’s time to sit down. Preferably on the ground. Not 30 feet above it.
