LIVE: Ariana Grande — ETERNAL SUNSHINE Tour

By Nick Campos | NJC Creative

The Experience

I have never experienced a show quite as beautiful as this one. Everything about Ariana's performance felt intentional. The stage, the production, the vocals, the way she commanded the crowd. Ariana has always been known as a vocalist, but hearing her live somehow takes that reputation even further. The runs. The melodies. The control. She could make thousands of people erupt with one movement and quiet them just as quickly. Seeing Ariana live had been a childhood dream of mine. I had imagined what that moment would feel like for years, and somehow the reality exceeded anything I had created in my head.

To say Ariana has had a huge impact on me would be an understatement. I grew up with her. I watched her on Victorious, and then I watched her become one of the biggest pop stars in the world. There isn't an album of hers I don't know or a song I haven't sung in the shower at some point. Her music has existed in the background of so many different versions of my life that sometimes it's difficult to separate the songs from the memories I've attached to them. And somehow, there's almost always a song I can relate to.

That's dangerous.

Because I think Ariana perfectly captures what it feels like to be in love, including all the trials and tribulations that come with it. She has a song for almost every emotion. Being in love. Being heartbroken. Missing someone. Being cheated on. Moving on. Self-love and self-respect. Sex. Desire. Regret. Anger. Forgiveness. And practically everything that exists in between. But the songs that have always spoken to me the most are the sad ones. better off. everytime. eternal sunshine. Only 1. needy. imagine. we can't be friends (wait for your love).

I don't think I've ever found another artist who captures heartbreak quite like Ariana does. Because heartbreak isn't just being sad that someone is gone.

It's a process.

Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance. A lot of heartbreak music stays in denial and depression. Someone hurt me. I miss them. I want them back. I'm devastated without them. Ariana fully embraces the rest of it. Her music allows heartbreak to be ugly and contradictory. You can know someone isn't good for you and still go back. You can understand that you're better off without someone while simultaneously wishing they were lying beside you. You can recognize a pattern and still repeat it everytime. You can love someone and resent them. You can forgive them without wanting them back. You can want them back without forgiving them. You can finally accept that it's over and still love them.

None of those feelings cancel each other out.

Heartbreak doesn't happen in a straight line. And neither does healing.

From My Experience

Maybe that's why Ariana's sadder songs speak to me more than anything else in her catalog. I struggle with knowing what's better for me. I struggle with knowing when something needs to end, even when part of me already knows it should. I've struggled with choosing people who are actually good for me. Sometimes I can recognize every warning sign and still find a reason to stay. Like a lot of the artists I love, Ariana calls me out. And needy speaks especially heavily to me.

When I get down, I get low. I can drown in my own sorrow, and suddenly every emotion feels bigger than it probably is. I know I can be obsessive. I know I can be overbearing. I know I'm not always the easiest person to love, and sometimes I'm so aware of those things that I start apologizing for myself before anyone even asks me to. I'm sorry for needing reassurance. I'm sorry for asking for more. I'm sorry for caring this much. I'm sorry for being scared that I won't be your last. Sometimes I just want to feel needed.

I want to feel important to someone.

I think there's a vulnerability in admitting that. We're taught to act like needing people is a weakness. Like the healthiest version of ourselves should be completely independent, never jealous, never insecure, never afraid of losing somebody. But that's not always who I am. Sometimes I need reassurance. Sometimes I want someone to remind me that I'm important to them. Sometimes I want to know that if I disappeared from someone's life, my absence would actually be felt. The problem is that I can become so concerned with being enough for somebody else that I stop asking whether they're enough for me. I put other people's needs above my own. I worry about inconveniencing them with my feelings. I apologize constantly. I make myself easier to handle because I'm scared that asking for too much will eventually make someone decide I'm too much. And there's an

uncomfortable contradiction in that.

I want to feel needed while simultaneously trying to need as little as possible.

I can give and give because I want someone to understand how important they are to me, then become embarrassed when I want that same energy returned. I don't need to be someone's everything. Sometimes I just need to know I'm something. And then there's better off. It's almost frustrating to listen to because sometimes I do know better. That's the problem. Knowing you're better off without someone and actually being willing to live without them are two completely different things. I can recognize when a relationship is draining me. I can recognize when I'm settling. I can tell my friends the entire story and hear myself describe something I know I shouldn't be accepting. And still stay. Because no matter how much I know better, somehow, I always go back.

everytime might be one of the songs that sums up most of my life. I have a habit of settling for less than what I know I'm worth. I can recognize that I'd probably be better off alone, focusing on myself and learning how to exist without constantly searching for another connection. But I can't save a relationship to save my life. And eventually, I do get better. I get back up. I start feeling like myself again. I admit that I need better. I recognize everything I was accepting and wonder why I ever allowed myself to become comfortable with so little. For a while, I genuinely believe I've broken the cycle. Then the phone rings. Or they text. Or they give me the smallest piece of affection I've been starving myself of. And suddenly, I'm right back where I started. Every time.

I'm waiting for calls again. I'm analyzing messages. I'm wondering when I'll hear from them next. I'm allowing their attention to determine how I feel that day. And slowly, I start losing myself again. That's the part of the cycle that scares me most. I don't just go back to the person. I go back to the version of myself I became for them. I become whatever version of me seems easiest for them to love. I bury what I actually feel. I make my needs smaller. I avoid saying things that might upset them. I accept things that bother me because speaking up creates the possibility of losing them. And somehow, keeping the connection becomes more important than being myself within it. That's why everytime hits me so hard. It understands that knowing better doesn't necessarily mean doing better.

You can recognize the pattern. You can hate the pattern. You can swear you're finished with the pattern. You can finally start healing from it.

And still answer the call.

better off is the part of me that knows exactly what I deserve. everytime is the part of me that hasn't figured out how to choose it yet. But eventually, there has to be a choice. And that's where we can't be friends (wait for your love) comes in. Sometimes the hardest battles are the most silent. There's no dramatic argument. No huge betrayal. No final explosion that makes leaving easy. Sometimes it's just you sitting alone with the truth you've spent so long trying to avoid.

Me and my truth.

Eventually, it stops being about whether the other person is going to change.

It becomes about whether I'm finally going to.

I can spend forever waiting for someone to communicate better, love me differently, reassure me more, commit to me, or finally become the person I've convinced myself they're capable of being. And maybe they will. Maybe one day they'll change completely.

But I don't have to be there waiting for it to happen.

Taking accountability doesn't mean blaming myself for how someone else treated me. It means accepting that I can't control whether they change, how they see me, or the version of me they've created in their head. I can only control what I do next. And sometimes that means leaving. That's terrifying when you're someone who always goes back. Because leaving means accepting that maybe they'll become everything you begged them to be after you're gone. But I can't keep hurting myself because of who someone might become. I have to make decisions based on who they are to me now.

Even if they eventually change, going back might not be worth the risk.

It's not worth the relapse.

Not when I know what going back can turn me into. I know what it's like to start waiting for calls again. To make my needs smaller. To apologize for everything. To become whatever version of myself seems easiest for another person to love. At some point, protecting myself has to become more important than waiting for someone else to become better. Self-love isn't always looking in the mirror and loving what you see. Sometimes self-love is disappointing the part of yourself that desperately wants to stay. Sometimes it's walking away while you're still in love. Sometimes it's accepting that you may never know whether they would've changed.

Sometimes loving myself means refusing to stay long enough to find out.

And then there's acceptance. eternal sunshine is a song, and an album, that I go back to almost every day. Learning to accept what you cannot change is difficult when you haven't experienced good love. Learning to let go is hard when you've spent so much of your life grasping at straws, trying to save connections that maybe weren't meant to be saved. When you're used to fighting for people, letting someone go can feel like giving up. But eternal sunshine taught me that maybe it isn't.

Maybe letting go isn't giving up. Maybe it's finally accepting that something can matter without having to last forever.

The title eternal sunshine references Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, a movie built around the idea of erasing painful memories of a relationship. And I understand that fantasy. Who wouldn't want to erase the moments that keep you awake? The memories that make you question yourself? The person whose name can still change your mood? But if I erased all of that, I'd erase the growth that came from it too. I'd erase the lessons. I'd erase the good memories. I'd erase versions of myself that only exist because I loved that person. That's what being someone's eternal sunshine has come to mean to me. Someone can cause you pain and still have brought warmth into your life. They can become a source of meaningful growth and leave you with unforgettable, beautiful memories without needing to remain part of your future.

Something doesn't have to be forever to have changed you forever.

And maybe moving on doesn't mean reaching a point where none of it matters anymore. Maybe moving on is being able to admit that it mattered. That I loved you. That you hurt me. That we had beautiful moments. That we had terrible ones. That I learned from you. That I don't regret knowing you.

And that I still don't need you back.

I've spent so much time thinking moving on means I have to stop caring, stop remembering, or somehow convince myself that the relationship meant nothing. But I don't have to destroy the past to have a future. One day, someone will love me for me. One day, I won't feel like I have to become smaller to keep somebody around. I won't have to bury my needs or wait beside my phone for the smallest piece of affection. I won't have to constantly wonder whether I'm asking for too much. And maybe I'll look back at the people I once thought I couldn't live without and finally understand why they weren't meant to stay. Not with anger. Not with resentment. Not even necessarily with sadness. Just acceptance.

You happened. You mattered. You changed me. And I kept going.

I can remember. I can grow. I can love again.

And it doesn't have to hurt anymore.

That's what made finally seeing Ariana in front of me feel so surreal. I wasn't just seeing an artist I'd wanted to see since I was a kid. I was standing in front of someone whose music had unknowingly narrated parts of my life before I'd even lived them. Around me were thousands of other people crying, dancing, screaming, holding each other, and FaceTiming people who couldn't be there. I didn't know most of them. But for that night, it didn't really matter. Every person in that room had attached different people, memories, relationships, and versions of themselves to the same songs. The Ariana I watched on television as a kid was standing in front of me. And the kid who used to sing those songs without understanding them finally did. Maybe that's what growing up with an artist really means.

Eventually, life teaches you what the lyrics meant.