When Our Heroes Hurt: Standing Beside the Voices That Once Carried Us
- Mickey Miller
- May 13, 2025
- 5 min read
Music has a way of reaching the deepest parts of us. It wraps around pain, lifts us from darkness, and becomes the soundtrack to our most important moments—both joyful and unbearable. For many of us, the artists behind that music become more than voices on an album. They become our heroes. Our lifelines. Our companions through the hardest days. Because they weren’t just musicians to us.
They were the soundtracks to our survival. The words we screamed in our car when no one else was listening. The verses we held like a mantra when depression whispered lies. They were our outlet, our escape, our sense of belonging when the world felt unkind.
And when they get sick—or when they leave us too soon—it hits us in a place we didn’t know could hurt so much. Seeing them sick shatters something in us. It reminds us that even our heroes bleed. That the voices that once thundered through arenas or spilled through headphones in the middle of the night are not invincible.
But here’s the other side of it: they still matter.
They are still here. Still human. Still fighting. And now, it’s our turn. They didn’t know us. But they got us. They screamed the things we couldn’t say. They sang the sorrow we buried deep. Their music helped us make sense of grief, anger, heartbreak, and hope. It didn’t matter how big the venue was or how many millions of albums they sold—what mattered was that we felt seen.
So when they share their pain—on social media, in interviews, in song—it’s raw and real. They’re not asking to be idols. They’re being human. Vulnerable. And we see them now in a way that goes beyond the stage lights.
I’ve felt that pain more times than I ever wanted to. When Steve Clark of Def Leppard died, it shattered something in me. His riffs and songwriting helped define an era of my life.
When Eddie Van Halen died, the world didn’t just lose a guitarist—we lost a pioneer. He didn’t just play guitar; he reinvented it. He electrified our lives. And with him went a part of our spirit we didn’t know was so closely tied to a six-string.
Prince. Michael Jackson. John Lennon. The list goes on. Legends whose voices and presence changed music and changed us. Gone far too soon, yet their echoes never stopped ringing.
Randy Rhoads deserves a spotlight of his own. His time here was short, but his impact was massive. He brought a haunting, elegant brilliance to metal guitar work that’s still unmatched today. Every note he played seemed to be touched by something divine. He was taken far too early, yet his spirit lives in every aspiring guitarist who ever dreamed bigger because of him.
Neil Peart’s passing broke my heart in a different way—he was the mind behind the rhythm, the silent thinker who gave poetry to percussion. When David Bowie left us, it felt like the stars dimmed. Freddie Mercury—his voice was thunder and velvet; losing him felt like the world got a little quieter. Dimebag Darrell and Vinnie Paul? We didn’t just lose bandmates; we lost a brotherhood of music and energy that can never be replaced.
Taylor Hawkins—his joy behind the kit, that wild grin, the way he made every Foo Fighters show feel like a party with a purpose—his loss still aches.
And then, there were the ones who gave everything and still couldn’t escape their pain:
Kurt Cobain. Chris Cornell. Chester Bennington.
Their lyrics screamed truth, cried silently through melodies, and carried the weight of the world for so many of us. Losing them wasn’t just a tragedy—it was a wound we still carry.
I’ve watched the passing of so many musicians that it takes a toll on your soul.
I’ve been on this earth for 56 years, and music has been one of the few constants that has always made sense. It is the one thing that has never abandoned me.
So when Brad Arnold of 3 Doors Down announced he has Stage 4 cancer, it shook me.
Not just because I admire his music.
Not just because their songs have lifted me more times than I can count.
And that moment—simple, sincere, vulnerable—struck me in a way I wasn’t expecting.
This wasn’t about fame or charts. This was about a man who’s given his heart through music now facing something terrifying—and reaching out. And suddenly, the lyrics that once gave us strength now ask something from us in return.
In the emotional video where he announced his diagnosis, Brad asked for something so human, so vulnerable:
He asked for our prayers.
And he asked us to revisit the very song that has carried so many of us through—the defiant, life-affirming anthem, “It’s Not My Time.” That song means even more now. It always did—but now it’s a battle cry. A promise. A mantra.
You’ve given us so much. Let this moment be one where you feel that love come full circle.
It made me stop and really think.
About life.
About health.
About how fragile all of this really is.
And most of all, it made me ask:
How can I honor them?
How can I help them—even if they’re famous, even if I’ve never met them face to face?
That’s the thing about the artists we love:
We may not know them personally.
We may never have shared a room, a meal, or a conversation.
We don’t know what they do on a lazy Sunday or who they call when they’re afraid.
But it feels like we do.
Because they were there when no one else was.
Their songs were the friends who didn’t leave.
Their voices were the ones that understood us when even our loved ones couldn’t.
So when they’re hurting—it doesn’t feel like just a headline.
It feels like someone we love is in pain.
Brad, if you ever see this—you are not alone.
You have stood by us in your lyrics, your shows, your presence.
Now we are standing by you.
My heart aches for your family, friends, fans, and bandmates—for everyone who loves you and now finds themselves caught in this moment of uncertainty and fear. I can’t imagine the weight they carry. But I hope they know how many people out here are lifting them up, holding space for them, and walking this road beside them in spirit.
We’re revisiting “It’s Not My Time”—but not just listening. We’re living it. Believing it. Sending every bit of strength and love we can muster to stand beside you, just like your music has stood beside us.
To every artist who’s helped us through a dark night or gave us a reason to keep going: thank you.
Whether you’re still fighting, healing, or watching from beyond the stars—you will never be forgotten.
You didn’t just make music.
You made us.
And because of that, we will carry your spirit forward.
Because it’s not your time.
With all of my heart I pray, I send all the positive and good energy to all.
Love, Peace and Loud Music,
Mickey
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