There’s a moment—just a few seconds, really—when the opening notes of your favorite song fill the air, and suddenly, nothing else matters. That’s when I demand the universe pause. The volume goes up. The windows go down. And I become the lead singer in the greatest concert no one else knows is happening.
It doesn’t matter where I am—stuck in traffic, driving down an empty highway, or parked outside the grocery store. When that song comes on (you know the one), I’m not just listening. I’m living. Every lyric becomes mine. Every beat syncs with my heartbeat. For a few glorious minutes, I don’t just hear the music—I am the music.
I used to think this little ritual was my own quirky secret, until the day I saw her.
She couldn’t have been more than six. I was walking through the park, earbuds in, humming along to an old favorite, when I spotted her in the distance. Her parents were sitting on a bench, chatting, distracted. She, on the other hand, stood in the middle of an open patch of grass with a toy microphone in hand and a speaker at her feet.
Then the music started.
It was some upbeat pop song I didn’t recognize, but she did. Her eyes lit up, and before I knew it, she was dancing—no, performing. She twirled, sang off-key, flung her arms into dramatic poses like she was headlining a sold-out stadium. Hair flying, sneakers pounding the grass, heart on full display.
No one told her to stop. No one made fun. She was completely unselfconscious. Lost in the music. Swept away.
I stood there, smiling like an idiot, watching this tiny human remind me of something I already knew deep down: Music has no age limit. No rules. It doesn’t ask for permission. It just moves you.
And in that moment, I realized she and I were exactly the same.
Sure, I’m older. I sing in a car instead of a field. My mic is invisible, and my concerts are solo. But the joy? The passion? The need to lose yourself in something beautiful, if only for a few minutes?
That’s universal.
So the next time my song comes on, I’ll still blast it. I’ll still roll the window down and sing like I’m the star of the show. Because music isn’t background noise—it’s a lifeline, a spark, a story waiting to be told every time you press play.