A Coldplay concert in Toronto, a solo love story

I bought my Coldplay concert ticket back in 2024 when my heart was quietly breaking. I knew, deep down, that the person I once believed would be my life partner might not be in my life on 12 July 2025 when Coldplay was scheduled to play in Toronto. And I was right.

That day in 2024, tickets to Coldplay’s World Tour show went on presale. A fire drill was going on in my office building in downtown Toronto. I was the evacuation head for my department. As I cleared the floor and walked outside into the sun, I along with other hopeful colleagues logged into the ticketing website, standing in the designated safe zone, half-nervous, half-hopeful.

Tickets were expensive – but before the drill ended, I found one at a reasonable price. Just one seat. For me. I hit “purchase” with shaky hands. I wasn’t sure if my seat would be great but I was excited I would just get to be present. I was ecstatic, in fact. I had missed Coldplay in Singapore when my friends had travelled all the way, but this time, I wasn’t going to miss out.

As July 2025 approached, people kept asking me, “Who are you going with?” I’d say, “Just me,” and they’d respond, “Isn’t it the people that make the experience magical?” They weren’t wrong – but they weren’t entirely right either. This was my first solo concert. A Coldplay concert. As a new immigrant and a single woman still planting roots in Toronto, I was nervous but proud.

The walk to Rogers Stadium was long and hot under the summer sun, but once I arrived, everything shimmered with possibility. The volunteers were kind, water stations flowed, there was a Coldplay Ferris wheel spinning against the skyline, food stalls buzzing, and the merch line winding like a river of devotion.

My seat wasn’t on the floor – but to my surprise, it had a spectacular view. I climbed up, found my spot, and sat alone for an hour in my row. I danced by myself. I filmed the phenomenal Nigerian-origin singer-songwriter Ayra Starr performing. I felt awkward only momentarily – until I saw others, solo too, scattered throughout the stadium. We had our quiet camaraderie.

The Ontario sky started to change – blue, pink, orange – like a watercolour painting unfolding, right as the concert began. It felt like a milestone. Empowering. Bitter and beautiful. I thought about my past year alone in Toronto. Born and raised in New Delhi, India, this was the first year I’d been on my own, healing, showing up for myself, pushing myself to be inspired and to inspire others. Challenging myself, taking risks.

And yet I’m still becoming. I missed the feeling of being seen. Of sharing joy. Of being witnessed in real time. I’d come a long way from the little girl who used to watch Coldplay concert videos online, dreaming of making it to one someday. I was proud of this version of me – choosing joy, choosing to show up. For the first time, choosing myself.

Four boys sat in front of me, howling, drinking beer, clearly heartbroken or reckless or both – but filled with this boyish, messy joy. They were strangers, but their brotherhood touched me. I watched them and felt that same sense of wild survival.

I caught glimpses of other solo attendees and sent them silent nods of respect. We’d all come for something bigger than just music. Coldplay made it easy to feel seen. Relatable lyrics that thousands had spent quiet moments listening to, but also those we loudly sang along to with friends, or lovers.

We were informed that our tickets funded reforestation, research, and wildlife conservation; and that the show itself was powered by green fuel sources such as solar power and kinetic energy. We were given biodegradable wristbands that would later light up to the music in a magical dance of coordination across the stadium of 50,000 souls, and could be used to signal danger or distress.

We were also given moon-film glasses that turned lights into hearts. The Toronto Transit Commission rain trains till late and had arranged special buses for those with disabilities. It didn’t feel like just a concert – it felt like a movement for peace, kindness, and radical love.

And then… Coldplay began to play. The stadium lit up: 50,000 people singing, glowing under the open sky. Fireworks burst. Confetti poured like a celebration of the human spirit. Balloons bounced. Lights pulsed. My heart cracked open. I sang through my tears – loud, full, free.

Nostalgia crashed over me. I couldn’t believe I was finally here. On my own. And not only surviving it – but loving it. Everyone around me had someone to hug, a hand to hold. I held my own arm. And I cherished it. This love I’ve slowly been learning to give myself – the kind that doesn’t depend on who’s watching, or who stayed.

When Coldplay played Fix You, it was a cue for my waterworks to start. So, so many tears of joy, longing, strength and still finding a way to fill this familiar void. But also my own voice telling me, I got you, you’re complete.

In that moment, I thought of everyone who couldn’t be there – my dog who passed away after teaching me what being loved really looks like; my friends scattered across time zones; and the many versions of myself I’ve outgrown. I remembered what it feels like to be deeply connected. That energy moved through me in the music, in the sky, in the pulse of the crowd. The silence of absence was loud, but I wasn’t lonely. I was completely, vividly alive.

Chris Martin’s presence was everything – he invited a few people from the audience on to the stage, encouraged us to stay hydrated and to be kind to shorter folks so that they could see the show! In between, he performed with Palestinian-Chilean singer Elyanna, talking about our shared humanity and how we all are a “sky full of stars”.

After the concert, I called my best friend who lives in Australia – we gushed about how magical it was to experience Coldplay and the songs we loved the most. Other friends checked in too. I felt held. Seen. But mostly, I was holding myself.

This wasn’t just a Coldplay concert. This was a return to self. A soft landing after a hard year. A memory I get to keep forever because it was mine, fully. It was a bloom. The sky gave me one last gift – a blood moon rose above the city as we exited the stadium.

The crowd was energised and singing tunes of Coldplay. Still pulsing with joy. I took a breath and smiled.

The next day, I watched all my videos over and over again. I didn’t want the moment to end.
And maybe that’s the point – I want to live every day like that concert. A little wild. A little messy. Present and thoughtful. Lit up from within.

A story of a Coldplay fan. One in a million.