I’m not sure if you’re as much of a musicaholic as I am, but if there’s one thing my life has always revolved around, it’s music.

Sometimes I wonder what life would be like if music had never been invented. Would the world constantly feel quiet? Empty? Dull? Or would we have found another way to say the things we struggle to put into words? I don’t think we realize just how much music surrounds us until we stop and listen.

If every person in the world listened to the exact same song, I can almost guarantee we’d all hear something different. Some people would feel the bass echo through their chest. Others would notice the rhythm and the beat. Some would hold onto a single lyric because it reminds them of someone they miss, a place they love, or a chapter of life they wish they could relive.

That’s the beautiful thing about music.

One song can mean a thousand different things.

When I hear certain songs, I don’t just hear music—I remember pieces of my life. I remember the people I was with, the roads I was driving, the tears I cried when no one was looking, and the moments that made me laugh until I couldn’t breathe. It’s amazing how one song can bring back an entire memory you thought had faded away. Suddenly, you’re not just remembering it – you feel like you’re living it all over again.

Some songs became my escape.

There were days when putting on my headphones wasn’t about listening to music. It was about finding a place where my thoughts couldn’t reach me for a little while. For three or four minutes, everything else seemed to disappear. The hurt, the overthinking, the questions I couldn’t answer—they all quieted down long enough for me to breathe.

The problems were still there when the song ended. But somehow, I wasn’t carrying them alone anymore.

Music has a way of making you feel understood by someone you’ve never met. A complete stranger can write a song about their own life, yet somehow it feels like they borrowed pages straight from yours. It’s comforting to know that somewhere, someone else has felt the same heartbreak, the same joy, the same fear, or the same hope.

Maybe that’s why music has always meant so much to me. It found me during moments when I couldn’t find myself. Music doesn’t just help me get through life—it helps me create.

Whenever I sit down to write, the first thing I do isn’t open my document. It’s opening Spotify. Every story, every Viewpoint, every late-night idea begins with a playlist. If I’m writing something emotional, I’ll search for songs that slow everything down and let me feel what I’m trying to say. If I’m writing about excitement, happiness, or celebration, the music changes with it.

I don’t just write words. I write emotions.

Music helps me step back into memories I haven’t thought about in years. It reminds me what heartbreak felt like, what joy sounded like, and what hope looked like. Sometimes I don’t even know what I want to say until the right song starts playing. It’s almost like the music writes beside me.

Maybe that’s why every piece I write feels different. Every story has its own soundtrack.

Even Mother Nature has a soundtrack. Walk outside on a spring morning and you’ll hear birds greeting the sunrise. Sit on the porch during a summer evening and the cicadas begin their chorus. Listen to the wind moving through the trees after a storm or the steady rhythm of rain against your window.

Maybe music didn’t begin with us. Maybe we’ve simply been listening to it all along. The older I get, the more I realize music isn’t just something we listen to. It’s something we carry.

We tie songs to memories without even trying. A single note can bring back an entire season of life. A familiar chorus can remind us of someone we’ve loved, someone we’ve lost, or someone we never had the chance to say goodbye to. It reminds us of late-night drives with the windows down, dancing around the kitchen when nobody’s watching, celebrating victories, or sitting alone in the dark wondering if tomorrow will feel any different.

Looking back, I don’t think music simply became part of my identity. I think it helped create it.

It taught me that it’s okay to feel deeply. It reminded me that not every emotion needs an explanation. Sometimes all we need is a melody that understands us before we understand ourselves.

When people ask me why I love writing so much, I don’t think they realize the two have always gone together. Writing lets me tell my story.

Music helps me remember it. If someone wanted to know who I really am, I wouldn’t start by telling them where I grew up or what my favorite color is.

I’d hand them my headphones. Because somewhere between every lyric I’ve memorized, every late-night playlist, every drive with the windows down, every song that helped me through heartbreak, and every song playing while I wrote these words ... they’d find me.

Maybe that’s why I’ve never believed music is just something we listen to.

I think it’s something we become. Every lyric we relate to. Every song we play on repeat. Every playlist we create for different seasons of life. Little by little, they leave pieces of themselves inside us. And somewhere between the verses and the choruses ... we start discovering who we are.

Abby Grasser recently graduated from Barton Community College while working part-time at the Great Bend Tribune and will soon leave to attend Fort Hays State University. Her email address is agrasser@gbtribune.com