Since the age of 15, I’ve been an avid concert goer. I would say I’ve gone to about 30 concerts in the last six years since this journey began, and I remember each night pretty well. I remember going with my best friend and her cousin to a concert, and her cousin lost a fingernail. I remember the blood, but I also remember laughing about it together all the way home.

Nowadays, I’m the “old” one at concerts, surrounded by fresh teens going to their first concert ever, their parents trying to give them the best possible advice even though they’ve never been to one a day in their life, a worried look on their face as they wonder what they allowed their child to go to, and how they were gonna make it through the night after offering to go with them. Those looks always make me laugh.

I can deal with the over-protective parents. That’s their kid, so I let it go. I know if my kid wanted to go to a concert, I’d definitely be worried—I wouldn’t hover over them, standing behind them, arms crossed attempting to mimic a brick wall, but I would definitely stand in the back, beer in hand, and hope for the best. A few bruises never hurt anyone, right?

What I can’t deal with are the phones. The gosh-darn, bigger than ever, smartphones that obscure this poor 5’4” girl’s view. I get wanting to capture the moment, wanting to brag, making people feel envious of that concert you’re at while you film every possible moment and keep pressing the refresh button until it’s finally uploaded on Snapchat, but I also don’t get it. People now are so busy trying to record their moments, post their moments, share their moments, that we’re forgetting to live during these moments.

When I attended my first concert, iPhones and Androids were a relatively new thing. People owned them of course, but not many knew how to use them, and the quality of their pictures and videos were nowhere as good as they are now. Everyone at that show, the one I attended when I was still a baby and had no choice but to go with my uncle, was living in the moment. Everyone was dancing, mingling, screaming, singing. Everyone was having fun.

I’m not saying the people recording the concert aren’t having fun but are they?

There’s an amazing adrenaline rush when you go to a concert. You’re filled with energy even on the line, jumping around, talking to everyone, freaking out, spazzing about your favorite bands. Once you step in, you’re surrounded by people who are just as energized as you. The lights dim, everyone pushes forward, butts touching and pits sweating—get comfortable, you’ll be this close with them for the next two to three hours of your life. Now, the band gets on stage. The crowd is going nuts, pushing more and more, and then they appear. The phones pop up, one by one until there are at least 70 million phones in the ends. The lead singer screams, “Everybody jump,” so you jump, and make head to elbow contact with the 15-year-old desperate to record a shaky moment that won’t even have a second of clarity.

Twenty minutes in, the crowd is going crazier, the mosh pit broke out and people are crowd surfing left and right, you probably lost an earring, or if you’re me, you’ve lost a shoe somehow, and you’re trying to break the crowd apart to find it. Those people with the phones? All they’re recording is the blurs of people falling on them and the mess of people around them.

I’m not saying don’t record a single thing, but why not live in that moment. Jump when they scream jump. Start a mosh pit, if you’re cool like my best friend. Jump around, laugh a bit, try to sit when a slow song comes on, crowd surf—live. Experience these moments instead of just recording them. Sure, recordings are forever, but the memories you’ll make while you live will be even better than any blurry foot you recorded.