It was a crisp, clear night in late November. Six months earlier, I’d scored tickets for my daughter and me to see Billie Eilish in concert, and tonight was finally the night. After finding a spot in the crowded parking garage and grabbing a quick bite at one of the bars on the strip, we found ourselves in the heart of the Power and Light District, standing in a ridiculously long line in front of T-Mobile Center, surrounded by fellow Billie fans eager to snag some merch.

People watching became our main source of entertainment while waiting in line. Someone was dressed up like Billie from the What Was I Made For video—short-sleeved yellow dress, light yellow Mary Janes, hair pulled back high and tight into a flipped-out ponytail, walking with the same reverence and conviction as the star herself, as if she were gliding through the crowd, completely in character. Others wore oversized, baggy clothes with their hair pulled back into two messy space buns—a look that once gained notoriety from Princess Leia in the ‘70s only to be revived and made iconic again by Billie. My daughter had given herself blue highlights in honor of the event, no doubt an ode to the color palette of Billie’s new album Hit Me Hard and Soft. We huddled together in front of the merch stand trying to block the wind and stay warm while deciding which overpriced t-shirt, hoodie, or jersey to buy.

Mothers stood alongside their daughters, entire families came out to share the experience, and clusters of teens buzzed with excitement, snapping selfies and belting out Billie’s songs as they waited. The crowd was a vibrant blend of generations, all connected by their shared love for the artist and the anticipation of an unforgettable night. Even the vendor trailer joined in the atmosphere, offering a photo op adorned with Billie’s name and the signature mix of dark and light blues from her latest album cover, adding a perfect touch of fandom to the scene—a scene that was about to become a monumental moment in my personal history.

After buying their merch, most people drifted to the side of the trailer to snap a quick photo next to Billie’s name. Pairs posed together, besties standing shoulder to shoulder—one arm slung casually around the other’s shoulder, the other striking a sophisticated ‘hand on hip’ pose.

As my daughter and I slowly walked away from the merch stand, now carrying a prized Billie jersey, two girls approached us with bright smiles. “Would you mind taking our picture?” one of them asked.

“Of course!” my daughter replied, reaching for their iPhone.

The girls struck a flawless pose, heads tilted just so, their radiant smiles suggesting they’d perfected this routine many times before.

“Thanks”, they chimed in unison as my daughter handed the phone back. Then one of them offered, “Do you want one of you two?”

I glanced at my daughter and nodded. “Sure,” I said, smiling.

We stood together in front of the trailer, its bold orange lettering spelling out “BILLIE EILISH” in all caps against a backdrop of soft blue hues. My daughter leaned casually toward me, her feet evenly spaced, one hand resting lightly behind my back, the other positioned at her side as if to proudly showcase the Billie jersey we had just waited 45 minutes in line to purchase.

Walking inside the venue to find our seats, my daughter laughed as she looked at the picture we had just taken together.

“Mom,” she said, “why do you always stand like this emoji in pictures?” Then, she mimicked the pose, dropping her arms straight down to her sides and spreading her feet shoulder-width apart, as if bracing herself for a military inspection.

“What do you mean?!” I exclaimed, genuinely puzzled.

But looking down at the photo on my phone, I realized what a perfect observation it really was.  Both arms studiously at my side, knees locked and aligned, legs perfectly straight, smiling without any teeth in sight, almost as if my lips were levies trying to hold back the mighty Mississippi that was my mouth.

And then it dawned on me. I wasn’t just standing; I was the “Woman Standing” emoji come to life. Strong, yet understated. Proud, but restrained—my happiness cautiously contained as though sharing too much might draw unwelcome attention. Friendly? Sure. But shy, with a faint glimmer of annoyance lurking in the half-hearted smile that stretched across my face like an awkward apology.

I scrolled frantically through the photos on my phone, desperate for proof that this was just a one-off occurrence. Surely, I couldn’t have spent my entire life unwittingly embodying the “Woman Standing” emoji. There had to be some variation, some spark of flair or a hint of style hiding somewhere.

But there I was… standing stiffly in front of Ripley’s Aquarium in Gatlinburg, TN, immortalized in a family vacation photo—arms rigidly at my sides. At a wedding in 2018, I stood next to my brother and his girlfriend and while his girlfriend radiated confidence with her perfectly tilted head, hand-on-hip pose, and a dazzling, toothy smile, there I was again—arms glued to my sides, lips pressed into a polite, faintly awkward smile. Even in a selfie I’d snapped at Academy Sports, proudly modeling a coat I thought was cute, my stance was unyielding—legs locked, arms straight, and posture reminiscent of the royal guard.

It was true. All of it. I was the ‘Woman Standing’ emoji for better or worse.

But why? Why was my go-to pose so dull and uninspired? Was it because I was born in the ’80s, when everyone seemed to blend into the same unflattering glow of bad lighting and those dreary sepia-toned Polaroids? Or was it the ’90s, the era of disposable cameras—when you’d snap a dozen photos, wait weeks to get them developed, and by the time the prints arrived, no one even remembered or cared what was happening when they were taken? Let’s be honest, half the time my grandfather would tilt the camera downward mid-click, so our eagerly awaited photos would reveal a parade of headless torsos. The rest? A chaotic blur of motion and overexposed flashes, so bad we might as well have skipped developing them altogether.

Was I subconsciously trying too hard to fade into the background, to avoid drawing any unnecessary attention? Did my mind instinctively shut down all traces of emotion the moment a camera flash loomed nearby?

As I sat in my seat, the lights dimming and the first chords of Billie’s opening song filling the arena, I glanced again at the photo on my phone. My daughter’s radiant confidence and my steadfast emoji-esque pose seemed like polar opposites. But maybe that’s the beauty of it—her exuberance and excitement, my quiet presence. Perhaps I wasn’t trying to fade into the background at all. Maybe I was just standing firm in my own way, a quiet anchor in her whirlwind of vibrant self-expression.

And really, wasn’t that enough? Everything else could wait until tomorrow. Or next week. Or maybe forever.