Thimphu hosted its first-ever international concert, and it wasn’t just a concert, it was a seismic cultural event. Changlimithang Stadium, normally a site for National Day celebrations and football matches, had transformed into a dazzling arena of light and sound. At the heart of this spectacle was Ed Sheeran, the man with a loop pedal and a gift for making you cry over relationships you have never had.

Naturally, I went. How could I not? This wasn’t just a musical event; it was history unfolding, the kind of moment my children might one day reference with mild amusement as they humour my increasingly irrelevant stories. With a mix of curiosity, skepticism, and my wide-eyed daughter by my side, I stepped into Bhutan’s first international mega-concert, determined to embrace the milestone.

For my family, it was just as momentous. My teenage son, practically vibrating with excitement at the thought of hearing “Shape of You” live, while  I, the  cautiously optimistic mother, decided this was a cultural experience worth braving and approached the evening with a resolve to make this a shared memory. What followed was an evening of self-discovery, existential musings, and the realisation that, perhaps, I am not cut out for world-class concerts.

Lesson One: Tight spaces are not my thing

I made what I thought was a strategic decision: get as close to the stage as possible. After all, isn’t that the point? Proximity equals connection, or so I naïvely believed. Instead, I found myself wedged into a space so tight between hundreds of fellow Bhutanese concert-goers, all equally determined to breathe the same air as Ed . It felt like I was auditioning for a role as “distressed extra” in a disaster film. Somewhere in the melee, it occurred to me. I don’t enjoy tight spaces, I don’t enjoy being jostled, and I most certainly don’t enjoy discovering a latent claustrophobia at a live concert.

But my discomfort was nothing compared to the hyper-awareness that came with bringing my young daughter into this environment. The Ed Sheeran team had reassured us this would be nothing like the infamous sardine-packed concerts at Wembley Stadium, but tell that to my maternal instincts. Every elbow, every push, every sharp movement sent my anxiety spiraling.

Lesson Two: Bhutanese politeness has its limits

Bhutan is often touted as a land of happiness and tolerance, a serene bubble where kindness reigns supreme. But introduce a three-hour wait, overpriced snacks, and a sprinkling of global pop fandom, and cracks begin to show. The crowd, once polite and composed, transformed into a swarm of impatient elbows and muttered frustrations.

It was a revelation, really. Bhutanese people are not immune to the pressures of modernity. Whether it’s globalisation or simply the primal urge to get a better view of a Grammy-winning musician, we, too, are susceptible to the small, sharp aggression that defines humanity elsewhere. I stood there, watching my fellow citizens morph into something I hadn’t quite seen before and thought, “Well, we’ve arrived”.

Lesson Three: My body was not made for this

Let’s talk about the lights and sound. For a first-timer, the sensory overload was enough to leave me questioning the structural integrity of my nervous system. The bass thudded through my chest with such force I briefly wondered if I’d accidentally signed up for some avant-garde cardiac treatment. The lights, meanwhile, were dazzling enough to make me wish I’d brought sunglasses.

At some point, my body decided it had had enough. Heart pounding, palms clammy, I found myself teetering on the edge of a full-blown panic attack. The irony wasn’t lost on me: surrounded by thousands of people swaying to the gentle croons of “Perfect”, I was mentally drafting my escape route.

Lesson Four: Perhaps I’m past my prime

Despite the chaos, there were moments of genuine joy. Watching Ed Sheeran perform live is, undeniably, a treat. His loop pedal magic, his charm, his ability to make an entire stadium feel like an intimate gathering, it’s all very impressive. But as I looked around at the euphoric faces of teenagers belting out lyrics with religious fervor, I couldn’t help but feel a bit… out of place.

My teenage son, on the other hand, was in his element. He sang, he cheered, he lived. I envied his ability to surrender fully to the moment, unburdened by the creeping thoughts of age, comfort, and the next day’s obligations. Was this a generational divide? Or was I simply someone who, at this stage in life, finds more joy in a well-made cup of tea than a world-class concert?

Final Reflections: A cultural milestone, a personal trial

As I left the stadium, ears ringing and feet sore, I couldn’t help but feel a strange mix of pride and exhaustion. Bhutan had pulled it off our first international concert, a roaring success by any measure. It was safe, it was organised, it was everything you’d want such an event to be. But for me, it was also a reminder of something simpler: not every cultural milestone is meant to be lived firsthand.

Would I do it again? I am not sure? Do I regret going? Absolutely not. Bhutan is changing, evolving, stepping onto the global stage in ways both thrilling and disorienting,  it’s a story I’ll tell for years to come (preferably over that aforementioned cup of tea).

Contributed byKhandu-Om Dorji

A mother of two, she currently manages Paro Gangtey Spring Water while pursuing MBA at RIM.

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