Finding My Voice Again

I never thought I’d find myself singing again. For years, the thought of touching a guitar or letting words out of my chest felt like reopening an old wound. Engines were safer—they broke in ways I could understand, and fixing them gave me the illusion that maybe I could fix myself too. Then she showed up, a musician stranded by chance in my small town, and somehow she saw through the grease and silence I’d wrapped around my life. She wouldn’t take ‘no’ when she heard I used to write songs. She pressed, gently but firmly, until I found myself at that bar, guitar in hand, my friend’s songs trembling in my voice.

For the first time, the weight lifted—just a little—and I caught a glimpse of something beyond grief. She carries music like a torch, and she’s lit a spark in me I thought was gone forever. It wasn’t easy; every strum of the strings felt like I was pulling up memories from deep underwater. But there was something about her smile, about how she closed her eyes when she sang as if the melody itself was holding her up. She reminded me of why I started writing songs in the first place—because sometimes words aren’t enough, and you need to feel the rhythm of your heart.

I don’t know where this road will lead us, but for the first time in years, I’m willing to follow the sound. Maybe it’s foolish—maybe I’m setting myself up for another crash. But there’s something different about her persistence, something that makes me think maybe not all roads lead to heartbreak. When we played together on that stage, for a moment it didn’t feel like I was alone anymore. And though it terrifies me to admit it, I’m starting to believe that maybe my songs can heal more than just broken engines.