We’ve all felt it.
Going about the day, headphones in, dishes half-done, errands half-cared-about,
and then that one song comes on.
You know the one.
The one that makes your heart feel like it’s being held while it’s still trying to catch its breath.
Yeah. That one.
It’s an ache hard to name. Maybe it’s for someone no longer in your life. Maybe it’s for someone you never found the right words for. Maybe it’s a longing for someone without even a name.
For me, it’s been all of the above.
But recently, something shifted. A few days ago, that familiar ache came while listening to a song that used to carry the weight of someone else’s memory. But this time, my heart landed somewhere new.
It landed on me.
For the first time, I realized the tenderness I’d once reserved for others—the fierce, aching love I gave away without hesitation—could be given back to myself. And not out of survival.
Not out of rebellion. Out of belonging.
We aren’t taught how to do this.
We’re taught that love is an outward act, something we perform for others. Rarely are we shown that love can be an inward breath, a reflection held tenderly in our own hands.
Now, when those songs find me, I don’t chase ghosts. I turn the music inward. I let the longing fold me up, not into someone else’s story, but into my own.
We are told to make our inner worlds neat.
To organize our chaos into pie charts. To trim our shadows to fit the margins of what society calls “functioning.”
But I have learned:
The most beautiful music isn’t about structure. It’s about flow. I am not a reflection of the world’s push and pull. I am a masterpiece of my own messy, glorious making. The cobwebs? They aren’t the problem. They’re what hold everything sacred together.
Once you know, truly know… that you are enough, not think it, not hope it, but know it in your bones, That’s when real magic happens.
I found myself.
I found my voice.
I found my purpose.
And now?
I no longer ask permission to be who I am.
“Host it. Don’t ghost it.”
Five small, unassuming words. Not a battle cry. It’s not a declaration of victory. It’s just a beginning.
The beginning of returning to yourself. The beginning of staying. The beginning of playing your own music, and letting it fill the room, even if no one else is listening yet.
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