I don’t use music to escape.
I use it to stay.
When depression settles in like dust
on every surface of my thoughts,
when even breathing feels like a chore
I didn’t sign up for,
I reach for sound the way others reach for prayer.
There are days I can’t explain myself to anyone—
not my sadness,
not the ache that has no name,
not the way emptiness can feel so loud.
But a song understands immediately.
It doesn’t interrupt.
It doesn’t try to fix me.
It just sits beside me in the dark.
I press play and let the world blur.
The first note feels like a hand on my back,
steady, grounding, saying:
you’re still here.
The rhythm becomes something I can follow
when my thoughts spiral without direction.
Some songs hurt—
they dig their fingers into old wounds,
pull memories to the surface
I thought I buried deep enough.
But even pain feels safer
when it has a melody,
when it moves instead of stagnates.
Lyrics become mirrors.
They reflect parts of me
I’m scared to look at directly.
They say, you’re not broken beyond repair,
you’re not the only one who feels this way,
this ache has been lived before.
Music gives shape to the heaviness.
It turns numbness into vibration,
turns despair into something measurable—
three minutes, four minutes,
one song at a time.
There are nights I lie still,
headphones on, eyes closed,
letting sound wash over me like waves.
I tell myself:
Just make it to the next track.
Just survive this verse.
And somehow, that’s enough.
Music doesn’t promise healing.
It doesn’t swear things will get better tomorrow.
What it offers is smaller,
and maybe more honest—
company,
understanding,
a reason to keep breathing in rhythm.
And sometimes—
not always, but sometimes—
a chord shifts,
a chorus lifts,
and I feel a crack in the darkness.
A reminder that feeling this deeply
means I’m still alive,
still capable of hope,
even if it’s quiet.
So when depression tells me I’m alone,
I answer with sound.
With voices that reach me through speakers,
through time,
through pain.
And in that shared silence between notes,
I find something precious:
the strength to stay,
the courage to feel,
and the belief that my story
isn’t finished yet.
