There’s something about the way music doesn’t just pass through you—it stays. Not always in words or melody, but in the shape it leaves behind. A breath caught mid-chorus. A tear summoned from a place you’d forgotten was still tender. A rhythm that syncs with your pulse, then takes over.
I’ve heard songs that felt like prayers—and some that felt like questions God Himself couldn’t answer. I’ve been rescued by a riff, wrecked by a lyric, stitched back together by a whisper of a harmony.
Why does it move us so deeply?
Science says it’s the dopamine. The memory centers lighting up. The limbic system’s reaction to harmonic tension and release. Sure. But you and I both know that can’t be the whole story.
Music is memory, emotion, and presence all tangled together. It’s the closest thing to time travel I’ve found. One verse and I’m seventeen again, laying in the back of a friend’s car watching clouds blur into telephone wires. Another song, and I’m holding someone I’ve lost—just for a moment—before the silence sets in again.
We listen to make sense of what we can’t say. We sing to say what we don’t yet believe. We dance because sometimes the only way through pain or joy is to move with it, not against it.
I don’t know if music is proof of God. But I know it’s the closest I’ve come to feeling like I was being heard by something bigger than me.
