Collective Effervescence
Leroy took me to see The Lion King in San Francisco for my thirty-sixth birthday in 2004. I loved every minute of it. So when I saw it was playing locally, I knew exactly what I wanted to do. We gave the grandkids tickets for Christmas and went to the performance in Sacramento in January 2026.
For most of my life, I’ve managed my emotions pretty well. Some people have called me stoic. I take that as a compliment. Just because I don’t always show what I’m feeling doesn’t mean I don’t feel it. That said, it’s gotten a little harder to keep everything in check as I’ve gotten older. I blame hormones. So I wasn’t shocked when I felt a lump in my throat during the opening scene of The Lion King. What caught me off guard was that it never really went away.
I knew what was coming. I’d seen it before. And still, I was filled with awe and wonder—and overwhelmed with gratitude for the chance to share it with Jameson and Charlotte. The emotion hit me immediately and stayed with me the entire performance. I told Sierra I might need to call the doctor and adjust my hormones. She laughed and told me it was something called “collective effervescence.”
When a group of people shares the same emotional experience, the energy in the room amplifies it. That’s collective effervescence. It shifts the focus from me to us. It connects us. We feel something together, and that shared engagement intensifies it. Our emotions bounce off one another and come back stronger.
My friend Stuart described something similar after seeing Cirque du Soleil at the Royal Albert Hall. He said watching the performers trust each other moved him deeply. I told him what I’d learned about collective effervescence—the power of a shared moment. I’m convinced that’s what real art is meant to do.
When we know better, we do better. Now that I understand what was happening, I won’t be so quick to suppress it. Moments like that don’t come around every day. I’d rather keep my heart open and recognize the gift of experiencing something extraordinary—not just with the people I love, but with a room full of strangers feeling the same thing at the same time.
