The soundtrack to my healing: songs that got me through the worst year
Last year was the year my internal weather became impossible to ignore. Anxiety sharpened ordinary sounds until the hiss of Melbourne’s trams and clatter of cutlery felt unbearable. At the same time, I was rebuilding after sexual assault, working through the long-term effects of disordered eating, and grieving a version of my life that no longer existed. Nothing looked catastrophic from the outside, but inside, every day required careful management.
My recovery playlist began accidentally. I saved songs in the notes app without explaining why, then transferred them to my phone during long train rides. Some tracks made me cry; others helped me get out of bed. I began treating them less like background noise and more like emotional landmarks. A particular song could mean panic in a supermarket, exhaustion after therapy, or the moment I finally ate a full meal without calculating every ingredient.
The soundtrack to my healing was never supposed to become a cure. I knew recovery involved therapy, medication, practical support, and plenty of ordinary repetitions that nobody notices from the outside. Music simply gave those difficult moments a shape. It held feelings I did not have the energy to articulate, reminding me that fear, grief, anger, and hope could occupy the same hour without one cancelling out the others.
Living in Melbourne, my coping toolkit became surprisingly local. A flat white from a laneway café gave me ten quiet minutes before work, while a tap of my MYKI card onto the tram meant I had left the house and entered the wider world. I also learned that support could be as ordinary as a friend saying, “Not sure how you’ll be right, but I’m here.” Later, a GP Mental Health Treatment Plan helped me access subsidised psychology sessions, with Medicare rebates reducing the cost.
When music became a way through
The first months felt like moving through fog with the volume turned up. On the tram, I would put on headphones and choose one song as a small act of intention. If I selected it deliberately, it felt different from letting an algorithm decide what I should feel. The music could not make the journey safe, but it gave me something steady to move beside.
“Breathe” by PROPER was one of the earliest songs I returned to. Its pace made my body want to keep going rather than fold in on itself. There was nothing delicate about it, which was exactly what I needed. Some days required encouragement with a beat and a chorus; other songs would have made me feel too fragile to face.
Songs that carried the heaviest hours
- “Ribs” by Lorde: The panic sounded familiar, but so did the relief of hearing someone describe that panic without judging it.
- “The Night We Met” by Lord Huron: It gave my grief a place to go when words had disappeared completely.
- “Francis Forever” by Mitski: Its restless energy turned lying still into a challenge I could finally accept.
- “Breathe” by PROPER: The rhythm gave anxious energy somewhere productive to land.
These songs did not carry me, exactly. They travelled alongside me while I made toast, walked around the block, or sat outside the psychologist’s office waiting for my appointment. The distinction mattered. I was not surrendering my story to a melody; I was borrowing enough structure to keep moving through it.
When a familiar song became a hiding place
Eventually, some tracks became too familiar. I knew every pause and rise, which meant I could hide inside them. Replaying “The Night We Met” for forty minutes did not always process grief; sometimes it allowed me to avoid whatever sat on the other side of it. Comfort can become a room with no windows.
Reading about sitting with discomfort challenged that habit. The phrase sounded clinical until I applied it to a song I had been using as an escape hatch. Staying with discomfort did not mean forcing a breakdown or manufacturing insight. It meant noticing the urge to change the track, naming it, and choosing whether familiar pain was actually helping.
I started pairing songs with small actions. “Breathe” accompanied washing a plate or stepping onto the tram. “Francis Forever” came on while I changed a fitted sheet. If the feeling became too large, I called my friend, drank water, or wrote three sentences in my journal. The track did not replace the action; it made beginning it less lonely.
This also loosened my attachment to a “perfect healing playlist.” Healing rarely follows the running order I want. A song from an easier week might hurt more than one written for a breakdown. A track could carry shame in the morning and tenderness at night. I learned to let each song do what it could that day rather than demanding it become permanently meaningful.
Reclaiming what fear had taken
Some songs felt dangerous because they belonged to people who had hurt me, or because I had used them to numb experiences I was not ready to face. Reclaiming them did not mean pretending the associations had never existed. It meant changing the conditions around them until my body could hear the music differently.
That process was physical as well as intellectual. Volume, headphones, darkness, and time of day all mattered. A song that had once triggered a panic response could become grounding when I played it while standing in the kitchen, feet planted on the floor. The track remained the same, but my nervous system gained a new context.
Songs for choosing myself
- “Liability” by Lorde: It named the exhausting habit of treating love as something I had to earn through usefulness or compliance.
- “River” by Leon Bridges: Its sense of grace allowed forgiveness without pretending that harm had not happened.
- “myth” by Beach House: Its shifting beauty reflected cycles that felt messy and difficult to escape.
- “All I Need” by Radiohead: Its intimacy made gentleness feel like strength rather than surrender.
I began using these songs after difficult appointments, difficult meals, and conversations in which I had struggled to speak. I was also learning that healing did not need to erase my bisexuality, my history, or the parts of myself I had hidden to remain safe. A life could be both tender and complicated. Music helped me stop demanding that every song offer a neat solution.
There were days when I played “Liability” and felt nothing except irritation. I no longer treated that as failure. Emotional regulation is not constant calm; sometimes it is simply returning to the room after leaving it. The song was still there, and I was still there with it.
Turning a private playlist into shared care
One afternoon, I sent “Francis Forever” to a friend with the message, “You might like this one.” She replied that she had played it on repeat during her own breakdown. Our pain did not merge into one dramatic story, but something loosened between us. She had made me tea and listened without asking for details. I had sent her a song. Care became reciprocal.
Australians often make emotional support sound practical: “I’ll ring you,” “Have a go,” or “Send me something to listen to.” That directness can be invaluable, especially when a person does not want advice or an elaborate explanation. A song can say, “I am here, and I recognise this feeling,” without requiring either person to perform recovery.
Eventually, I began collecting music and grounding exercises to share with others. The site’s contact page became a natural place for those exchanges, with thoughtful resource suggestions and gentle corrections welcomed. Sharing did not mean turning private pain into content. It meant recognising that a personal coping strategy might offer another person a small handrail.
Music also made my support network feel less abstract. At a tiny Brunswick pub, a support band played a cover of “The Night We Met,” and the room held its sadness without trying to repair it. Across the city, a friend cooked dinner while “Skinny Love” played in the kitchen. These moments did not replace professional care. They showed why personal and collective healing have to exist together.
Keeping the music close
Healing has changed the songs for me. Some tracks have faded; others have returned with different weight. I no longer need the soundtrack to prove that I am doing better. Sometimes I play “Ribs” because I want its recognisable panic, not because I am trapped in it. Other days, I put on “River” simply because it sounds beautiful and that is reason enough.
Looking back, I resist turning that worst year into a neat redemption arc. It included cancelled plans, unanswered messages, medication changes, and days when none of my efforts seemed to matter. The music was part of that reality rather than a soundtrack imposed over it. It gave me fragments of language when I had none, and it reminded me that a feeling did not have to become permanent just because it was intense.
The practical takeaway is a simple pairing: one song for the feeling and one small act of care for the body. The music can hold the moment while water, a meal, a message, or a scheduled appointment carries me into what comes next. Together, without pressure or promises of a quick cure, they became the things I could still reach for when everything else felt impossibly far away.
