Catharsis, On Shuffle
Driving Through Music
Catharsis.
Every time I get in my car, and that phone connects to the Bluetooth—that’s when it begins. Cliché or Oxford dictionary as it might be, catharsis truly comes to me through the core of music. In the crescendos and decrescendos, in the subtle notes and sudden breaks, I find myself. The expression of a soul long muted by a world quick to speak without listening.
Most important, though, are the words. The lyrics carry a profundity. Not every song has that power—the power to rattle my senses, or carry me into some altered emotional state, some sacred ache or ecstatic blur. But when one does, both the algorithm of my streaming platform and my internal algorithm of seek and play repeat these songs over and over again until I move past the need to release whatever emotion has been trapped inside me.
And it’s not just the music that plays into this formula. It’s the drive. The transition to a new destination filled with yet more tasks, expectations, and rotating masks used to present myself in different social interactions. In my drive, anywhere from ten minutes to three hours, I am truly alone. I am left to steep in my own thoughts; my own grief; my own rumination; my own dreams, desires, and dissertations.
It is the only time I get to truly escape the suffocating weight of the world I long to be a part of, yet always feel estranged from. A world where depth feels dangerous. Where I fear that being seen might mean being misread—or worse, being accepted only at the surface.
I was once told that the reason I don’t connect well with people, particularly people my own age, is because of trauma. It’s because of what I have experienced early on in life. It’s not the trauma itself that pushes people away—that rarely comes up early in conversation. It’s the depth I carry underneath. The way I read pain others haven’t yet named in themselves. The way I speak a language that not everyone has learned to hear. My extensive knowledge I developed as a shield to escape the chaos of my developing years.
Music is where I find those depths—the artist dares to speak boldly. They sing of love and heartache, milestones and landslides. Of aging and rebirth. Of Spirit, resistance, and everything the world tries to bury. Music is a place where I can speak to someone, and they speak to me, even if we never directly exchange physical presence. It is here that I find my catharsis.