I whole-heartedly believe music is a universal healer.
It has the ability to communicate, move, heal, teach. It transcends languages, cultures and generations.
Tom Petty said it best, here. “Music is probably the only real magic I have encountered in my life.”
I agree, Mr. Petty.
Music has transported me almost immediately when I needed to be somewhere else. It has grown with me as I learned, experienced, fell and stood back up. It has reached deep down into layers of my soul I didn’t know existed and uncovered raw, sometimes difficult emotions I didn’t know I had. Music then helped me better understand those emotions so I could better know myself. Music has healed wounds in my life I thought I’d have forever.
Music gave me fuel when I was running out; a rejuvenating necessity to my own life. Music connected me to those whom my heart sings out for.
It’s given me laughter, joy, friendship, love.
It has shown me strength in my own weaknesses. It has shown me love in my own hatred.
If you know me (even in the slightest), you would know I am not quiet about my love for John Mayer. And it’s not because of his sultry good looks or the way he can craft “bubble gum tongue” into a Grammy Award-winning hit (although those things help.)
John Mayer was my only companion at rock bottom. He was my only constant in a world of change.
He was there to tell me that I’d be whole again.
You see, throughout my life, I’ve always been the happy one. And, I am.
But I also live with a monster. A monster that has jaws and teeth and it swallows me up whole and spits me out feeling tired and defeated. I didn’t invite this monster. I don’t know why it found me. But it latched it’s claws onto me and it won’t let go. It’s often louder than my own voice and stronger than my own body and it’s full of a power that I cannot stop and it gains more power the stronger I try to fight it.
It’s name is anxiety. It’s name is panic. It takes different forms that I for some reason always created the space for.
It came in the form of not getting my license until I was 19 years old. It came in the form of dimming my own light so others could shine. It came in the form of pretending I was tired so I could go home. It came in the form of calling my best friend in the fetal position, shaking. It came in the form of crying in my office break room. It came in the form of a paralyzing fear of the worst — that my loved ones were dead or (in the most irrational form) a plane was going to crash into my house. It came in the form of hearing an ambulance and immediately thinking it was on the way to my house. It came in the form of claustrophobia, and as a result, avoiding places like grocery stores and crowded areas. It came in the form of a voice that told me I wasn’t normal. That I was “too weird” or “too loud” or “too annoying.”
It always knocked and I always let it in.
However, I never heard it knock when I was listening to John Mayer. Well, that is what I used to think, at least. And that probably used to be true.
But the real truth now is that I hear it knock and I choose to not let it in, because of John Mayer.
He has a song called “War of My Life.” It’s a good song, but it’s the live video of his monologue that really changed my life, that really taught me to not open the door.
“Let me make this easier for you. You’re going to freak out. You’re going to have at least one moment per week where you don’t feel right. But maybe it doesn’t feel so wrong if you know that it’s kind of supposed to happen to you. It’s the other side of being conscious and loving, that there will be times when you’re going to have to hit control, alt, delete…
So what I am trying to say to you, is fight on.”
He then took out a Xanax bar from his pocket and literally stomped on it on stage. I will never ever forget it. I will never forget that this person that I’ve never met but let into my home and my mind for years somehow felt the same exact thing as me.
And then, on an Instagram Live story he did last year, someone asked him how to cope with anxiety. I didn’t know what he was about to say, but before I knew it, John Mayer had given me the single most useful tool to fight and kill the monster in my life.
I even typed frantically typed it out on the Notes page of my phone.
He said that eventually, you’re going to freak out about all there is to freak out about, and when those thoughts arise, you will just file it away as nothing.
“Oh, this is that one. Oh this is File 416-A. Had it. Didn’t happen.”
I now recognize the monster at the door in all it’s forms. But I don’t let it win. I know that it does not come from a place of love and light. It comes from a place darkness.
Sometime after that, I got his lyrics, “keep me where the light is” tattooed on my arm and it is probably the most meaningful tattoo I will ever get.
It’s a reminder to not let the monster in. It’s a reminder to surround myself with love, gratitude, joy and light.
The light, to me, is my friends, my family — the insurmountable love I am surrounded by.
The darkness is my monster.
I’m staying where the light is.
Love Will See You Through 