How Music Saved My Mental Health

 

There are moments in life when even breathing feels like a task.
When talking to someone feels impossible, when silence screams louder than any words.
During those times, music didn’t just keep me company — it kept me alive.
It stitched the broken parts of me back together in ways therapy, advice, and even prayer sometimes couldn't reach.
Music didn’t just entertain me.
It saved me.

Why Music Hits Different When You’re Struggling

Music doesn't ask you to explain yourself.
It doesn’t tell you to “cheer up” or “be grateful for what you have.”
It meets you where you are — in the hurt, in the confusion, in the numbness.

It speaks the words you can't say out loud.
It feels what you can't articulate.

Sometimes all I needed was a sad song to cry with.
Other times, it was a reckless, bass-heavy anthem to scream to at 2AM.
Music gave me permission to feel without apology.

My Personal Experience

There were nights when it was just me and a speaker.
No friends, no texts coming in, no energy left for life.
I would lie there, completely empty — and then someone’s voice, someone’s guitar, some random beat would reach into the pit of me and pull me out.

It didn’t fix everything.
It didn’t erase the depression or cure the anxiety.
But it gave me something to hold onto when I couldn’t even hold myself.

I remember one specific night after a horrible panic attack — heart racing, chest tight, ugly crying kind of night.
I put my headphones on and just... floated.
Song after song, I slowly started breathing normally again.
I started feeling less alone.
Because somehow, someone out there had felt this exact same thing — and turned it into sound.

here were nights when it was just me and a speaker.
No friends, no texts coming in, no energy left for life.
I would lie there, completely empty — and then someone’s voice, someone’s guitar, some random beat would reach into the pit of me and pull me out.

It didn’t fix everything.
It didn’t erase the depression or cure the anxiety.
But it gave me something to hold onto when I couldn’t even hold myself.

I remember one specific night after a horrible panic attack — heart racing, chest tight, ugly crying kind of night.
I put my headphones on and just... floated.
Song after song, I slowly started breathing normally again.
I started feeling less alone.
Because somehow, someone out there had felt this exact same thing — and turned it into sound.

And in the same way, other people’s music saved me — I started saving myself through my own music, too.

As an artist, I learned how to pour my emotions into my lyrics — delivering them through melancholic beats, aggressive beats, or even boppy, playful beats, depending on my mood.
The things I couldn’t say out loud, the feelings I couldn’t explain to people, the messy, ugly truths?
I rapped them.
If I was angry, I rapped about it.
If I was sad, I rapped about it.
If I was feeling sexy or wild or restless, I rapped about it.

Music became my language when regular words weren't enough.
It let me explore all the different sides of myself — my moods, my alter egos—each one with its own voice, its own rhythm, its own pain or fire or softness.
It let me create art that honored every piece of me, even the ones I was scared to show the world.

And when I let those feelings out—when I recorded those tracks, when I listened to them back—I felt reborn.
It was like life had given me permission to breathe again.
To start again.
And so I did.

Some songs were so raw I couldn’t even upload them yet.
I'd sit with them, anxious, scared of being that exposed to the world.
But even if I didn’t share them right away, in those moments — recording, listening, surviving — they were real, they were mine, and they justified everything I had felt.

And when the time comes — when I’ve healed enough —I'll release them.
Because even pain deserves to have its moment in the sun.

The Science Behind It (Because Facts Matter Too)

• Listening to music releases dopamine, the brain's "feel-good" chemical, boosting your mood naturally.

• Certain rhythms help regulate heartbeat and breathing, especially slower tempos (around 60 beats per minute).

• Lyrics can validate emotions, making people feel seen, understood, and less isolated.

• Instrumental music can trigger emotional release without overwhelming you with words.

Music literally rewires your emotional pathways, pulling you back from the edge.

The Songs That Were My Lifeline 

For the Sad, Heavy Days (When You Just Need to Feel It)

• "Melancholy" — Sea 4 Emgodz:  Because it’s raw, aching, and honest — exactly how sadness really sounds.

• ""idontwannabeyouanymore"—Billie Eilish: Because sometimes you get tired of being yourself, and that's okay to admit.

• "Born to" Die"—Lana Del Rey:  Because it romanticizes sadness in a way that makes it easier to carry.

For the Angry, Fuck-This-Energy Days

• "The Exterminator" — Sea 4 Emgodz: Because sometimes you need a track that burns with your rage.

• "Pushing P" — Sea 4 Emgodz: Because anger isn't always sadness — sometimes it's swagger and defiance.

• "I'm Not Afraid" — Eminem: Because sometimes surviving feels like going to war with your own mind — and winning.

For When You're Feeling Haunted or Anxious

• "Disturbia" — Rihanna: Because anxiety feels like being trapped inside your own head, and Rihanna made it sound so real.

• "Bury a Friend" — Billie Eilish: Because it captures the eeriness of mental spirals in a way few songs dare to.

• "Summertime Sadness" — Lana Del Rey: Because even beauty can carry loneliness underneath.

For Hopeful, Healing Moments (When Light Starts Peeking In)

• "Blessings" — Big Sean: Because even in the middle of the chaos, gratitude can be a weapon.

• "Rip Ifeanyi" — Sea 4 Emgodz: Because honoring loss and remembering loved ones is part of healing.

• "Levitation" — Sea 4 Emgodz: Because when you start rising again — even just a little — it feels like magic.

• "Everything I Wanted" — Billie Eilish: Because survival doesn’t always look perfect, but it’s still survival.

Music didn’t “fix” me.
It didn’t erase my struggles or make the pain pretty.
But it gave me something to survive for — even on the days I didn’t want to.

It gave my heart a language when my mouth forgot how to form words.
It made me feel seen when I felt invisible.
It reminded me that no feeling is final.
That even in my darkest moments, there is rhythm.
There is a heartbeat.
There is still life.