There are some wounds that don’t show on the surface—hurts that stay buried, unseen, until something—maybe a moment, a sound, a memory—uncovers them. For me, music has always been that “something.” It’s the language I didn’t know I was speaking. The therapy I didn’t know I needed. The calm after my storm.

After a long day, when the weight of everything I’m carrying settles in my chest, it’s never been silence that soothes me. It’s music. I’ll slip on my headphones or play something soft in the background, and suddenly, I feel less alone. The world quiets, but not in a way that’s empty—in a way that’s full. The lyrics, the melodies, the slow rise of emotion—they remind me that someone else has felt what I’m feeling. And that’s powerful.

I created Baptized in Regret not as a polished piece of art, but as a release. A cry into the void. A journal with a beat. I never expected it to resonate the way it has, but what I’ve come to understand is that music finds people when they need it most. My story—though rooted in deeply personal trauma—opened the door for others to share their own. Not just stories about religious pain or abuse, but stories of loss, heartbreak, anxiety, depression, and the long, winding road to self-forgiveness.

It turns out, we all carry something. And somehow, when we hear a song that puts our pain into words we couldn’t find ourselves, it feels like healing. Maybe not all at once, but piece by piece.

Music has this incredible way of pulling people together, especially those who have felt isolated in their emotions. I’ve had strangers message me, saying, “Your lyrics said what I’ve been too afraid to say out loud.” That connection—that human thread—is more than validation. It’s the reminder that we’re never as alone as we think we are.

There’s a comfort in rhythm. A softness in melody. A truth in lyrics. Sometimes music makes us cry, and that’s okay. Sometimes it makes us feel brave, and that’s okay too. Whether we dance, scream, sit in silence, or sing along through tears—there’s no wrong way to heal when music is involved.

I may never fully erase the hurt I’ve lived through. But every time I press play—on someone else’s song or my own—I let a little more of that pain go. And that, to me, is what healing looks like.

If you’ve found refuge in a song, if a melody has ever met you where words failed—you know exactly what I mean.

Music saves people. It saved me.