In the Silence, I Turned Up the Music— and It Held Me Together

There are moments in life when the silence becomes unbearable. When grief, pain, confusion, or loneliness wraps around your chest and squeezes until you can’t breathe. In those moments, I didn’t always have the words to describe what I was feeling—I didn't always have someone to talk to or the strength to try. But what I did have — what I always had —was music.

Music has been my escape, my therapy, and my sanctuary. It has met me in the darkest corners of my mind, wrapped itself around my broken pieces, and held me close when I felt like I was falling apart. It didn't judge me. It didn't ask me to explain. It just played.

There is a kind of magic in hearing a lyric that says exactly what your heart is screaming, or a melody that feels like it was written just for your soul. Sometimes it was a heavy, screaming anthem that matched my anger and helped me release it. Other times, it was soft, haunting ballad that let me cry in peace. Whatever I needed, music somehow knew—and showed up.

I have had days where getting out of bed felt impossible, but I would press play and let the sound give me momentum. I've stood in crowds where the music was loud and I felt invisible—but safe. Understood. Alive.

Music didn't fix everything. But it held me together when I was unraveling. And sometimes, that was enough to keep going.

So if you ever wonder why I talk about music the way I do, why I pour my time and my heart into supporting bands, booking shows, promoting or chasing this rhythm —this is why. Because it saved me. Because it still does.

Music became my lifeline, a voice for my pain when mine was too shaky to speak. It met me where I was, every time. And somehow, it always knew what to say.

Songs like Def Leppard’s “Hysteria” reminded me that even chaos can be beautiful. Journey’s “The Party’s Over” felt like a mirror, reflecting those moments of bittersweet endings I never wanted to face. Testament’s “Souls of Black” and Anthrax’s “Safe Home” gave my heaviness a home—let me scream through the storm and come out the other side just a little more whole. Tantric’s “The Past is the Past” whispered what I couldn’t yet accept, helping me move through regret and finally let go. Queensrÿche’s “Silent Lucidity” wrapped around my soul like a blanket in my coldest, most vulnerable nights.

Pantera’s “Cemetery Gates” hit me like a thunderstorm—raw, emotional, heavy in all the right places. That song gave grief a voice and let me sit with it instead of running away. Sometimes, we need to mourn out loud, and Pantera gave me the space to do that.

Disturbed’s “Hold On to Memories” reminded me to cherish what I’ve lost and who I’ve become. And “The Light” reminded me that even in darkness, hope flickers. Five Finger Death Punch’s “Brighter Side of Heaven” hit deep, like a raw truth I didn’t know I needed to hear. It put emotions into words that I could never quite say out loud.

And then there’s Shinedown. Honestly, their entire discography—from “Leave a Whisper” all the way to “ATTENTION ATTENTION” and “Planet Zero”—has been a constant source of strength. Whether it was “45,” “Second Chance,” “Bully,” “Sound of Madness,” “GET UP,” or “Daylight,” "A Symtom of Being Human"their songs have walked beside me through every storm, reminding me that I’m never really alone. Their newest track, “Three Six Five" hit a nerve in the best way. It’s like someone finally put into words how it feels to live with emotional ups and downs, loss and everything in between —every single day. That song makes me feel seen.

Now, I’ve found that same kind of connection in newer music too. Mick Blankenship’s “My Dark Sorrow” and “Confessions” don’t just speak to me—they feel like pages ripped from my own story. The way the lyrics unfold, the melodies rise and fall—they remind me that I’m not alone in what I feel. That someone out there gets it.

These songs aren’t just music to me. They’re memory, emotion, healing. They’re the reason I still believe in the power of sound to save lives—because they saved mine. When the silence was too much, I turned up the volume. And the music held me together.

To the artists who’ve unknowingly helped hold me up—thank you. Your music is more than entertainment. It’s medicine. It’s connection. It’s survival.

And to anyone reading this who’s ever felt broken, unheard, or overwhelmed: turn up the music. Let it speak for you until you’re ready to speak for yourself.

I’d love to hear the songs that helped save you. Share them in the comments, message me, or tag me—because your soundtrack to survival matters too.