Silence has a weight all its own. After my stroke, I couldn’t handle any sound. Every sound startled me. I would jump at the smallest noise. I was lonely. I needed my world to be quiet. It was how I protected myself.
In the middle of that silence, one thing returned to me—the healing power of music.
It was familiar, ever so patient and steady. I built emotional walls to protect myself. Music found me, even when I wasn’t looking. When I heard a lyric—just a few words—it felt as if it was reading my mind. In my poem “When the World Went Quiet, the Music Stayed”, I once tried to capture this. Music gave me a voice when I had none. It helped me see the emotions I carried, and the world I had left behind. Over time, its healing reached me in even deeper ways.
Memories in Every Song
There are songs that carry me back in time the moment I hear them. Fleetwood Mac. The Eagles. The Rolling Stones. They don’t just remind me of who I once was. They reconnect me to the resilience I carried inside. For a long time after my stroke, I forgot that strength. It was buried behind fear and under the silence and weight of recovery.
That’s why returning to the music I loved mattered. It reminded me of the parts of myself I thought were gone. Those familiar songs held pieces of me that were waiting to be found again. Healing often begins when we hear our own history.
For me, it was classic rock that reminded me of my resilience. For someone else, it is the theme of a favorite TV show or the comfort of talk radio. Maybe even the jukebox in a diner, where fries and favorite songs were always served together. Whatever it is, the sounds tied to our story have the power to remind us of who we were. They show us who we can still become.
Music was no longer background noise. It became a bridge, carrying me from silence to expression, from past to present.
The Songs We Shared
Music has a way of drawing people together. For me, those connections often began within my own family.
I remember my oldest daughter as a toddler, standing with all the confidence in the world. Singing her favorite song, “I Love Rock n’ Roll.” She thought she was every bit of the rock star. Watching her sing always made me smile.
With my second daughter, my memories are of car rides filled with “The Judd’s”. We sang those songs over and over, knowing each word by heart. Those singalongs still live in me.
And then there was my youngest child—my son. He was still at home when I had my stroke, and he saw firsthand how it changed me. My son was determined to bring me back into the world again. His words were always the same, “Trust me.”
I remember the day he started drumming to “Mustang Sally.” It was a song I had loved long before my stroke. Hearing it again pulled me in and reminded me of who I had been. For a moment, the before and after came together. Something clicked inside me. It wasn’t just his music anymore, it was ours. That moment, and many others like it, helped me reconnect to myself through him.
These moments reminded me that music isn’t only about sound. It’s about connection, love, and belonging. Sometimes quiet, sometimes boldly always a reminder that I am not alone.
The Songs I Carry With Me
Today, I find myself listening to all kinds of new songs, old songs, and everything in between. Still, the oldies I grew up with hold a special place in my heart. They carry pieces of my history, my healing, and my hope.
Singing well isn’t important, and singing at all isn’t necessary to feel the healing power of music. Sometimes it’s enough just to listen. Let the notes wash over you. They remind you that you’re here—alive, feeling, and connected.
For me, music has been more than sound. It has been survival, comfort, and hope. That’s why I first wrote When the World Went Quiet, the Music Stayed—because sometimes music says what silence can not.
If my reflections speak to you, you’ll hear them again. You find them in Whispers of a Wish, Cocoon of Healing, or Lost Words, Found Strength. If exploring music’s support for memory interests you, check out Johns Hopkins Medicine: Music and the Brain.
