As a therapist, I talk about protective factors constantly. The things in a person's life that buffer against stress, build resilience, and keep them anchored when everything else feels like it's falling apart. Strong relationships, a sense of community, belonging…purpose. I help people identify their protective factors every single day.
It took me until recently to fully realize that this scene has been one of mine. Continuously. From the time I was a tween until right now at almost 37. To be honest, I should have clocked it sooner because I wrote a whole ass article on it.
I was recently at a The Academy Is...show because, hi. It's me. I went with my best friend from high school. I just hopped on a plane to Seattle, and off I went to reminisce about the old days and catch up on our very different lives these days.
As I stood there next to Connor, who is 6'8” by the way and significantly more courteous in his 30s than he was in his teens, we huddled in the back so as not to impede anyone's view. Growth. But I didn't go to this one to get rowdy like I usually do at shows. You know I love me a good mosh pit and crowd-surf action, but that’s a different article. This time I went to soak in the ambiance of the scene, with a friend who has been there by my side since the very beginning. And hearing those songs and feeling the warmth of him next to me was so grounding in a way that I haven't felt in a while.
I remember thinking "This is so worth it." Worth it for a weekend away from my kids and husband that was absolute chaos for him. Worth it for a flight to Seattle even when flights are simply outrageous right now. Worth the quick turnaround. All to see a band I haven't seen in 20 years with the person I last saw them with.
One thing I found myself doing at this show was watching the crowd. Because we hung back this time, I had a good bird's eye view and they were absolutely lit. And I was content, for once, to just sit back, sip my ridiculously strong drink, and watch. I watched as William Beckett preached about not just being a nostalgia band, which I felt a little guilty about honestly, but that they are still here and still making music. Still actively in the scene. And while I'll admit I hadn't listened much to their newest album, several people in that crowd had. Many of them were younger. I watched a girl, and I have the video to prove it, absolutely lose her mind to one of their new songs, "Miracle". And it was so wholesome to know that this scene is still doing that for people. Still finding them. Still pulling them in. Especially the newer acts out there. Ben Quad. saturdays at your place. Riley! Arm's Length, HummusVacuum. These guys are carrying the torch in a way that feels authentic to everything this scene has always been about. The aesthetic isn’t just surviving, it’s genuinely thriving.
And that got me reflecting. Especially because I was at the show with Connor, who has been to many a show with me over the years. Jack's Mannequin. A Day to Remember (the one we traveled to Memphis for and I blew my eardrum out in a mosh pit). Silverstein. Pierce the Veil. Fall Out Boy. Taking Back Sunday. The whole spectrum. We've seen it all together. And we've grown alongside the scene. While Connor still loves the scene, his relationship with it is a bit more subtle than mine these days. And that's okay.
Because when that tour announcement dropped I immediately texted him "duuuude" and he replied "bet, come to Seattle." No hesitation. No checking schedules. Over thirty years of friendship and this music is still the bat signal. The last show we went to together was 2016. Nearly a decade ago. And it didn't matter. Not even a little.
Here's what I know now that I didn't know at 16. There's a difference between needing something to survive and choosing it because it fills you up. When I look at old photos from the scene, what hits me hardest is the intensity of how much it all mattered. And boy did it matter. It mattered because I needed it to. I was there trying to prove something, trying to find myself, hoping to find people like me. The scene was a lifeline.
At 36, I don't need it the same way. I know who I am and I love who I am. I know exactly what I'm going to get when I walk into a show: the same love and acceptance I have for everyone else in that room. That's not neediness anymore. That's just home.
And that shift, from needing something to choosing it, is actually a really significant one clinically. It means the thing that once kept you afloat has become something that genuinely enriches your life. The scene didn't just help us survive our teenage years, it’s still growing with us. At 36, standing in the back of a The Academy Is... show next to my 6'8” best friend watching a girl lose her mind to a song I didn't even know, I felt nothing but gratitude for that.
This scene brings people together. It unites them even when years have passed. It picks up exactly where it left off.
It's the thread. And I'm so glad I never let go of it.