Music… it makes my world go round.

Silence scares me, and music fills that silence with something warm and poignant.

It quiets the world just enough for me to breathe.

Songs are powerful. They can unravel a person’s deepest thoughts in mere minutes. One of my favourite things is to ask someone what their favourite song is and just listen. You can learn so much from what you hear. The progression of a song tells a story, as though you’re walking beside them for a few minutes, sharing something deeply human.

Music has always found me in the places words couldn’t reach. It soothes the noise inside my head or amplifies it until I finally hear what I’ve been trying to silence. Each song is a mirror, showing me where I am, who I am, and sometimes who I’m too afraid to be.

It opens a door to a world where we don’t need to be alone. Through shared songs, we can communicate without barriers.

Tonight I’ve been reflecting on the last few months. Next week, my eighteen month therapy comes to an end. I’ll write about that in more detail soon, but for now, I want to reflect through music. On the many places it has taken me. Because sometimes, when words fail, sound carries the message better than anything I could ever write.

Music knows what to say when I can’t. Like this blog, it finds the spaces between my thoughts, the quiet, the ache, the pulse beneath what I never say out loud. It soothes, but it also stirs. Sometimes it feels like the only thing that truly understands the language of my emotions.

During therapy, my playlist told my story before I could. It held up a mirror that didn’t lie. It echoed what I felt before I could name it. That’s why one song can make you cry and another can steady you. Some lyrics felt written for me, because in that moment, they were me.

Therapy was never a straight line. Some days I climbed out of darkness; other days, I slid back down. But through every rise and fall, there was music. Always music. It reflected every phase of how I felt, the numbness, the anger, the heartbreak, the faint pulse of hope.

From hundreds of songs, these are the ones that stayed. They became more than background noise; they became signposts of where I was when words couldn’t come. Some were loud and chaotic, others soft and steady. Healing doesn’t always roar. Sometimes it whispers, waiting for you to listen again.

Uncomfortably Numb – Pink Floyd

It began with numbness.

The kind that feels heavy, as if your body is too much to carry. Therapy had started, but I was far from ready to feel. There’s a strange comfort in not feeling, it protects you, but it also isolates you. This song captured that perfectly. Existing but not living, breathing but detached. It wasn’t peace, it was absence. I was uncomfortable in stillness, desperate for something to move inside me, yet terrified of what it would mean when it did.

Same Drugs – Chance The Rapper

There’s a sadness that comes with watching everyone move forward while you stay frozen.

It wasn’t about substances; it was about distance. People growing, healing, changing and me, still trying to catch up.

I heard it and felt the ache of being left behind, of time passing without me. It’s a gentle song, but quietly devastating, like realising the world didn’t wait. It made me feel trapped in my own body, wishing someone could see me. A loss not just of others, but of the version of myself I hadn’t yet found.

Glass House – MGK (feat. Naomi Wild)

This one burned.

It forced me to face the parts of myself I’d tried hardest to hide. The anger, guilt, and resentment I turned inward. I’ve never known how to be angry at anyone else; the rage always lands on me.

Glass House shattered that mirror. It was messy, uncomfortable, but freeing. Sometimes anger isn’t destruction, it’s recognition.

Sad Forever – Lauren Spencer Smith

There were days when the sadness was so heavy it felt like breathing underwater.

Sad Forever gave that feeling a voice. The trembling vocals, the raw honesty, it mirrored the exhaustion of never knowing if the pain will lift, or if it ever will.

It reminded me that sadness isn’t weakness; it’s proof that I can still feel, even when I wish I couldn’t. Beneath the ache was a small flicker of hope. The belief that one day, maybe, it won’t hurt this much. It’s the moment in therapy when the tears come before the words do.

Die Young – Chappell Roan

This song hit me in the darkest place.

For a long time, I believed I wouldn’t make it this far. Die Young reflected that. It’s haunting and beautiful, defiant and broken all at once.

It was the song I played when I didn’t want to die but didn’t know how to live either. Even now, part of me still feels that pull, the whisper that it might be easier not to keep trying.

But when I listen closely, I hear something else; the will to stay alive long enough to see what might change.

Maybe living is rebellion. Maybe hope is hidden in the background of songs like this. Not loud, but waiting.

When the music fades, I’m left with silence, but it no longer feels empty.

These songs carried me through therapy. The numbness, the heartbreak, the anger, the exhaustion, and the fragile hope that followed.

They were there for me when I didn’t know how to be there for myself.