Once again, I was alone. Dating wasn’t going anywhere. Most nights after class, I’d grab dinner at a local restaurant, eating and drinking by myself at the bar. Then I’d head back to my condo, half-heartedly do some homework, pour another drink, and watch TV with my dog until I fell asleep.

One night, boredom led me to Facebook, where I stumbled across an invitation to join the TomorrowWorld Couch Surfers group. Curious, I clicked. TomorrowWorld was a massive three-day EDM festival, and the group was made up of travelers planning to meet up, camp together, and share the whole experience.

Couch surfing is a process where hosts, offer up their couch to strangers to spend the night. Allowing the couch surfers to travel around the world, or visit places, for free.

I posted in the group that my couch was open to anyone who needed a place to crash before the festival.

I lived in a small one-bedroom studio. There were no locked doors or real separation between my bed and the couch. Whoever stayed over would basically be sharing my whole space.

It probably sounded a little crazy. But opening my home — and my heart — to strangers wasn’t new to me. That’s how I was raised. My parents, Vic and Dot, were always taking people in. We had foster kids coming and going my entire childhood. At one point, when I was a toddler, there were thirteen kids packed into our modest 2,200-square-foot house. Some had severe disabilities. Some stayed a few days. Some stayed years. A few never really left.

What my parents showed me, without ever preaching it, was simple: if someone needs help, you make room. So letting a stranger sleep on my couch didn’t feel like a big deal. It felt normal.

One of the group members messaged me saying they needed a place for the night.

A few hours later, Jesus rolled up to my condo on a Harley-Davidson Softail.

Actually, his name was Tom, but he sure as hell looked like Jesus. At least the Anglo-Saxon version of him I’d worshiped in grade school—the one in all the paintings with perfect hair and a gentle expression. Six-foot-two, shoulder-length wavy brown hair and a matching beard, fair skin, kind eyes. If you’d told me he’d just walked off the set of a biblical movie, I would have believed you.

I met Tom on the street outside my condo. He was standing there in jeans, a leather jacket, and riding boots, a worn backpack slung over his shoulder.

“Robert?” he asked in a Belgian accent.

“Yeah, that’s me. You must be Tom. Come in, come in.”

We walked inside and took the elevator up to my condo—the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Atlanta skyline.

“Nice place,” he said politely.

“Thanks. Can I get you something to drink? Water? Beer?”

“Water would be great. Long ride today.”

I grabbed two bottles of water from the fridge and we sat down in the living room. My dog immediately went over to Tom and started sniffing him enthusiastically.

“How long have you been couch surfing?” He asked, settling into the conversation.

“Actually, you’re my first couch surfing host,” I admitted. “I’ve never done this before.”

“Ah, I’m honored to be your first guest! Don’t worry, I’m easy. Just need a place to sleep and maybe a shower.”

“How about you? How long have you been  couch surfing?”

Tom took a sip of water and smiled. “About a year now. All across America.”

“A year? Wow. That’s a long trip.”

“So what’s your story? How did you end up couch surfing for a year?”

Tom leaned back, his expression becoming more thoughtful. “Well, about a year ago, I was living in Belgium. Working a normal job. Corporate marketing. Good money, nice apartment, everything society says you’re supposed to want. But I was miserable, you know? Just completely dead inside. Every day the same. Wake up, go to work, come home, watch TV, sleep, repeat.”

I nodded. I understood that feeling more than he knew.

“So one day, I just decided—screw it. I’m going to sell everything and travel. I sold my apartment, my car, most of my possessions. Kept what fit in a backpack. And I bought a one-way ticket to America.”

“Just like that? No plan?”

“No plan,” he confirmed. “When I got to the states, I bought the motorcycle, and I’ve been on the road ever since.”

“That’s…” I searched for the right word. “That’s brave.”

He shrugged. “Maybe. But really, I’m just out here enjoying life.”

I looked at this man who’d given up everything to be free, who’d traded security for experience, and I felt a pang of envy. I’d been stuck in my military career for eight years, and four years of military college before that. And where did it lead me, alone in Atlanta, divorced.

“Well, you’re welcome to stay as long as you need,” I said. “And tomorrow, we go to TomorrowWorld.”

The next day, we loaded up my Ranger and drove out to the festival grounds. Tom wore regular clothes for the drive, but he had his “festival outfit” packed in his backpack.

When we arrived and set up our tent in the Couch Surfers camping area, I met the rest of the group. About fifteen people from all over—a couple from Australia, two guys from Venezuela, a guy from Germany, another graduate student from Georgia Tech, and various others. Everyone was friendly, welcoming, excited.

As the sun began to set and the festival officially opened, Tom disappeared into the tent and emerged five minutes later transformed.

He was wearing a white flowing robe that went down to his ankles, with biker boots. His long hair and beard completed the look perfectly.

He looked exactly like Jesus Christ.

“What do you think?” he asked, striking a pose.

I burst out laughing. “You’re going to blow people’s minds.”

“That’s the idea,” he grinned.

We walked toward the festival grounds with our group. As we walked deeper into the festival, the spectacle overwhelmed me.

Massive stages rose out of the ground like temples to electronic music, each one covered in LED screens and elaborate set designs. Lasers cut through the night sky. Fire cannons shot flames fifty feet into the air in time with the bass drops. People dressed as blue Smurfs played hide and seek behind ten-foot-tall mushroom figurines. Tens of thousands of people danced, laughed, hugged, celebrated.

This is insane, I thought.

We walked across a bridge toward one of the main stages. The bridge was illuminated with thousands of LED lights that changed colors in waves—blue to purple to pink to green. Suspended above us were giant inflatable butterflies, glowing from within, their wings slowly flapping in the breeze.

Below the bridge, a lake reflected all the lights, creating a mirror image that doubled the magic. On the far shore, I could see a group of people dressed as Smurfs—fully body-painted blue—playing hide and seek behind enormous illuminated mushrooms that were at least ten feet tall.

I didn’t do drugs at that stage of my life—I was still military-minded, still following the rules even though I was on sabbatical for graduate school. But I didn’t have to do drugs. The scene itself was mind-altering. Reality felt optional.

As we walked past a group of people near the mushrooms, one of them did a double-take when they saw Tom.

“Yo! What’s up, Jesus!” a guy shouted, running over to give Tom a high-five.

“Blessings, my child,” Tom replied in a mock-serious voice, making the sign of the cross.

The guy cracked up and hugged him. “Dude, I love you. Can I get a picture?”

“Of course, my son.”

Maybe it was because Tom looked like Jesus. Maybe it was because most people were on drugs—MDMA, LSD, mushrooms, whatever. I’m not sure. But everyone was so incredibly friendly.

Really, the culture around that music festival was unlike anything I’d experienced in my life. So kind. So welcoming. So open.

I was in a dark place emotionally. The divorce was still fresh, the pain an open wound that hadn’t even begun to heal. I was lonely, lost, questioning everything about my life and my choices.

On top of all of that, I still suffered from the generational trauma associated with racism. It was clear that some girls didn’t want to date me or even give me attention because of the color of my skin, people refused to believe that I was Italian and Irish, the international Latino community at Georgia Tech pushed me away because I didn’t speak Spanish, I wasn’t black enough for the African American community, and I for most of the past decade I witnessed institutional racism in the military, most often being the only person of color in leadership roles. In my day to day life, I felt like I never fit in anywhere.

But there, at the music festival, I felt like everyone I met was immediately a friend, not just a stranger I’d met five minutes ago. People offered me water when I looked hot. Shared their snacks. Invited me to dance. Asked me how I was doing and actually listened to the answer. Hugged me like they’d known me for years.

After almost a decade in the military, moving around so often, stuck in rigid hierarchies where everyone was guarded and competitive, where showing vulnerability was seen as weakness—this group of EDM-loving, free-spirited festival-goers was the most welcomed I’d ever felt in my life.

It was heaven.