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The house was quiet today, that rare kind of quiet that feels like a held breath. The laundry was piled high on the bed, a soft mountain of tiny socks and worn-in jeans, and I was making my way through it, one warm fold at a time.
And then I found it. Tucked between a striped sweater and my husband's favorite flannel was a ghost from another lifetime: a thin, black concert t-shirt, so soft from a hundred washes that it felt like silk. The print was faded and cracked, a barely-there silhouette against the dark cotton. It took me a moment to place the feeling it gave me — that specific surge of teenage adrenaline, of car windows down and singing so loud my throat hurt.
It’s funny how a piece of clothing can be a time machine. I was sixteen again, sitting on a friend’s shag carpet, studying the liner notes of an album as if they held the secrets to the universe. We weren’t just listening to music; we were absorbing it, letting it build the people we were hoping to become. The soundtrack to that becoming was all soaring guitar riffs and gravelly, heartfelt vocals. It was the sound of being gloriously, messily alive.
I saw a clip online the other day of Jon Bon Jovi, playing a newer song in an acoustic set. His hair is silver now, and the frantic energy of the eighties has settled into something calmer, more grounded. He looked less like a rock god and more like a kind dad, someone who might give good advice or know how to fix a leaky faucet. And I felt this strange, quiet echo in my own life.
The rebellion looks different these days, doesn’t it? It’s not about turning the music up to ten. It’s about finding five minutes of stillness with a cup of tea. It’s about protecting a feeling of hope when the world feels loud. The anthems I needed back then were about running away, about being wanted, about living on a prayer. The anthems I need now are quieter. They’re the sound of my son’s steady breathing from the other room, the gentle clink of dishes in the sink, the feeling of a story well told before bedtime. 🧸
I suppose it’s easy to say an artist, or a band, loses their edge. But maybe it’s not a loss. Maybe the edge just softens, repurposed into a different kind of strength. The passion doesn’t vanish; it just finds a new home. It becomes the energy you use to show up, day after day, for the small, beautiful, and sometimes difficult things.
I folded the old t-shirt carefully and placed it back in the drawer. It’s not something I’d wear anymore, but I’m glad it’s still here. It’s a reminder of the girl who needed those loud songs to feel seen.
And it’s a quiet celebration of the woman she became, listening for the music in the silence.
And then I found it. Tucked between a striped sweater and my husband's favorite flannel was a ghost from another lifetime: a thin, black concert t-shirt, so soft from a hundred washes that it felt like silk. The print was faded and cracked, a barely-there silhouette against the dark cotton. It took me a moment to place the feeling it gave me — that specific surge of teenage adrenaline, of car windows down and singing so loud my throat hurt.
It’s funny how a piece of clothing can be a time machine. I was sixteen again, sitting on a friend’s shag carpet, studying the liner notes of an album as if they held the secrets to the universe. We weren’t just listening to music; we were absorbing it, letting it build the people we were hoping to become. The soundtrack to that becoming was all soaring guitar riffs and gravelly, heartfelt vocals. It was the sound of being gloriously, messily alive.
I saw a clip online the other day of Jon Bon Jovi, playing a newer song in an acoustic set. His hair is silver now, and the frantic energy of the eighties has settled into something calmer, more grounded. He looked less like a rock god and more like a kind dad, someone who might give good advice or know how to fix a leaky faucet. And I felt this strange, quiet echo in my own life.
The rebellion looks different these days, doesn’t it? It’s not about turning the music up to ten. It’s about finding five minutes of stillness with a cup of tea. It’s about protecting a feeling of hope when the world feels loud. The anthems I needed back then were about running away, about being wanted, about living on a prayer. The anthems I need now are quieter. They’re the sound of my son’s steady breathing from the other room, the gentle clink of dishes in the sink, the feeling of a story well told before bedtime. 🧸
I suppose it’s easy to say an artist, or a band, loses their edge. But maybe it’s not a loss. Maybe the edge just softens, repurposed into a different kind of strength. The passion doesn’t vanish; it just finds a new home. It becomes the energy you use to show up, day after day, for the small, beautiful, and sometimes difficult things.
I folded the old t-shirt carefully and placed it back in the drawer. It’s not something I’d wear anymore, but I’m glad it’s still here. It’s a reminder of the girl who needed those loud songs to feel seen.
And it’s a quiet celebration of the woman she became, listening for the music in the silence.
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