A Year Painted in Indigo: My Journey with RM’s Album

Music has always been my sanctuary. Each phase of my life has had a soundtrack, a collection of songs that held me together or lifted me higher. But this year, it wasn’t just a song; it was an entire album: Indigo by RM. It arrived when I needed it most, a lifeline wrapped in rhythm and poetry.

I’ve never been the social butterfly type. Being introverted has always been my safe space, a quiet world where connecting with others feels like solving a tricky puzzle.

That changed in 2018 when I met her, my best friend. Sitting beside me in class, she broke through my walls with a single act of kindness: showing me Beyoncé’s Pretty Hurts music video. “She’s perfect,” she said, her eyes lit with admiration.

That moment, I fell in love with Beyoncé, but more importantly, I found my soulmate. People often think soulmates are reserved for romantic love, but I disagree. She was my person, my confidante, and no one ever understood me the way she did. Through Beyoncé’s music, we bonded, sharing our fears, dreams, and even silent moments of joy. I could always count on her music to lift me up, to provide a sense of solace, or to just give me the energy to keep moving forward.

At the beginning of this year, my best friend passed away. Her death left an unfillable void in my life. I felt as though I had lost a part of myself. Despite being surrounded by friends and family who loved me, nothing seemed to fill the void she had left behind. Our connection was something far beyond words—a bond that could never be replaced by anyone else. The pain of losing her was unbearable, and I felt lost in a world that no longer made sense. I felt like I was walking through life without a compass, unable to connect to the world around me.

During that time, I clung to the memories of her and the music that had shaped our bond. Beyoncé released her album *Cowboy Carter* just months after her passing but listening to it became a bittersweet reminder of everything I had lost. It provided the escape I so desperately needed, yet every song made me feel the absence of my friend even more acutely. I was stuck in a loop, unable to fully mourn or move forward, but knowing that I couldn’t go back to the way things were.

In my grief, I retreated into social media, as I had done so many times before. Escaping into the digital world had always been my coping mechanism. When things became too overwhelming, I’d retreat into the noise, find a distraction, and bury myself in whatever hyperfixation I could find. That’s when something unexpected happened.

One day, while aimlessly scrolling, I came across a tweet announcing a collaboration between Megan Thee Stallion and an artist named RM. Curious, I quoted the tweet, asking about him. Within minutes, my notifications were flooded with replies from his fans urging me to check out his music, promising I wouldn’t regret it. I had nothing else to do, so I said why not?

Listening to Indigo

It was raw, introspective, and honest—qualities I had been craving in a world that felt disconnected from my feelings. *Indigo* was more than an album to me; it was a lifeline. Each track was like a conversation with myself, a way of navigating the complex emotions that had been building up inside me. RM’s words, his vulnerability, his reflections on growth, pain, and joy—it was everything I needed in that moment.

The album was a mirror, reflecting my own struggles and triumphs, fears and hopes. It was as if RM had created *Indigo* with me in mind, crafting each song to speak to the parts of me that had been silenced or neglected for so long. The vulnerability in his lyrics mirrored my own; the longing for connection, the process of healing, the battle between hope and despair—it was all there, woven into the melodies and rhythms. The more I listened, the more I felt seen and understood. *Indigo* became my comfort, my soundtrack to the healing journey I had to undertake.

What made this album so special wasn’t just the way it spoke to me; it was also how it allowed me to process my grief. His vulnerability was empowering—it gave me permission to embrace my own. The album was an invitation to heal, to reflect, and to grow. I found myself playing *Indigo* on repeat, each song helping me piece together the fragments of my heart.

It also reminded me of the power of music to transform and heal. Music, like a good friend, doesn’t judge. It listens, it reflects, and it comforts. And in those moments when I felt as though I couldn’t talk to anyone else. There was something incredibly cathartic about letting the lyrics wash over me, allowing the emotions to flow freely without shame. His words helped me process everything I had been carrying for so long—the grief, the isolation, the guilt, and the hope.

But what I realized through *Indigo* was that it wasn’t just about my grief. The album also represented my growth. Just as RM reflected on his own journey, I found myself reflecting on mine. I began to understand that healing is not linear; it’s messy, it’s complicated, and it’s personal. But with time, we find ways to move forward, to embrace the lessons we’ve learned, and to open ourselves up to new possibilities. RM’s music gave me the strength to do just that.

The songs from this album weren’t just playing in the background of my life—they were becoming part of my life. They were the soundtrack to my journey of resilience, growth, and self-discovery. Each track represented a different chapter of my story, from moments of intense sorrow to quiet moments of reflection. As I learned to navigate life without my best friend, RM’s words became a guide, offering me wisdom and comfort when I needed it most.

Music has always had the power to shape our experiences, and *Indigo* did exactly that for me. It didn’t just accompany me through my moments of joy and pain—it became the soundtrack to my healing process, my personal journey toward understanding myself and the world around me. RM’s *Indigo* wasn’t just an album; it was a friend, a mentor, and a companion on a journey I had to take on my own.

From the first track, Yun, I was hooked. RM’s voice was calm yet commanding, his lyrics weaving through the themes of identity, loneliness, and healing. Each song felt like a conversation with a wise friend who understood my struggles. The more I listened, the more I felt seen. This wasn’t just music; it was a guide for navigating life’s uncertainties.

Lonely: A raw reflection of isolation, this song put into words what I couldn’t. It helped me confront my loneliness, acknowledging it as part of the healing process.

From the very first listen, it felt as if RM had reached into the depths of my own heart and put into words the feelings I couldn’t articulate. “Lonely” captures the paradox of being surrounded by people yet feeling completely isolated, a sentiment I knew all too well after losing my best friend. The haunting vulnerability in RM’s voice paired with the understated production made the song feel like an intimate confession—a conversation I desperately needed to have with myself.

The lyrics resonated with my experience of grief and solitude. Even though I was never truly alone—my friends and family tried their best to be there for me—none of it filled the void left by her absence. The song’s refrain, “I’m f***ing lonely,” hit me hard. It wasn’t just a statement; it was an unfiltered admission of the pain that comes from longing for a connection that no longer exists. Listening to “Lonely” felt like someone finally acknowledged that emptiness, the kind that lingers even when life around you continues to move forward.

“Lonely” also mirrored my struggle with introversion. Like RM, I often feel like I’m caught between two worlds—craving connection but also retreating when it feels overwhelming. The song doesn’t offer solutions or neatly tie up the complicated feelings it explores, and that’s what makes it so powerful. It acknowledges that sometimes, loneliness is just part of the human experience, and all we can do is sit with it and let it run its course.

But more than just a reflection of sadness, “Lonely” became a companion. It reminded me that it’s okay to feel this way, that I wasn’t weak or broken for struggling to move on. In those moments when I felt like no one could understand what I was going through, RM’s voice reminded me that someone out there did. It became a strange kind of solace, a way to feel seen and validated even in my most isolated moments.

“Lonely” didn’t just make me confront my pain; it also helped me begin to process it. The song’s raw honesty encouraged me to be more honest with myself about what I was feeling. It taught me that admitting loneliness and vulnerability isn’t a sign of weakness but of strength. It’s through acknowledging those feelings that we begin to heal, even if the process is slow and imperfect.

In the quiet moments when everything felt overwhelming, “Lonely” played like a mantra in the background. It became a space where I could let my guard down, allowing myself to feel the full weight of my emotions without judgment. And in doing so, it slowly guided me toward acceptance.

Wild Flower (with youjeen): This song shattered me in the best way. The metaphor of wanting to be a wildflower—free, unrestrained—resonated deeply. It spoke of hope, of growing in unexpected places.

Looking back on this year, I realize that it wasn’t just the songs or the albums I listened to that defined me—it was the way those songs met me where I was and helped me navigate the complexities of life. *Indigo* was there when I needed it most, and for that, I will always be grateful. It’s a reminder that even in the darkest times, music can be a guiding light.

To my best friend;

Heaven couldn't wait for you,' and though it breaks me, I find peace in knowing you're somewhere beautiful, free from pain. You were my first—a love so pure and irreplaceable. I’ll carry you in my heart forever, until the day we meet again.

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