The Song That Saved My Life

By: [Your Name] lee hong

I don’t remember the exact day I gave up. Not in a dramatic, headline-making way. Just in the slow, quiet way people sometimes do. I stopped replying to messages. I let dishes pile up. My plants died — first the succulents, then the ones that actually needed care. Somewhere between December and the following March, I stopped opening the curtains.

The world felt too loud, too fast, too demanding — and I wasn’t strong enough to keep up. I didn’t tell anyone. I didn’t cry for help. I didn’t cry at all, actually. I just… faded.

I wasn’t always like that. A few years earlier, I was the “fun one.” The last to leave the party. The person who made people laugh even when they were trying not to. But life chipped away at me. One bad breakup, one job rejection, one funeral too many. It all builds. Eventually, I became the ghost of the person I used to be.

And then, a song saved my life.

That sounds dramatic. Maybe even cliché. But it’s true.

I was sitting on the floor of my bedroom. The carpet was rough against my legs. I hadn’t eaten anything solid that day — maybe not even the day before. My phone was next to me, the battery nearly dead, notifications unread. I wasn’t thinking of anything in particular. Just staring at the wall, vaguely wondering how people managed to keep going when everything felt so… heavy.

I didn’t plan to play music. I don’t even remember unlocking my phone. But somehow, “Keep Breathing” by Ingrid Michaelson started playing. Maybe it was the autoplay feature. Maybe the universe finally decided to throw me a bone. Either way, the first line hit me like a punch to the chest:

“The storm is coming, but I don’t mind. People are dying, I close my blinds.”

It was like someone had cracked open my ribcage and seen everything I couldn’t say. Every feeling I had buried. Every moment I looked okay on the outside while falling apart inside.

I pressed the phone to my chest and listened.

“I want to change the world... instead, I sleep.”

I sobbed. For the first time in months. I ugly cried, the kind that shakes your whole body. I felt something — anything — and that in itself felt like a miracle.

The chorus kept repeating, soft and steady:

“All I can do is keep breathing...”

That line became my lifeline.

It didn’t fix everything. This isn’t a fairy tale. I didn’t suddenly jump up, clean my apartment, and get my life together because of one song. But I did stand up. I did open the curtains.

And the next day, I listened to it again. And again the day after that. I played it while brushing my teeth, while making toast I didn’t finish, while sitting in traffic just trying to feel okay. It became my quiet anthem — not for thriving, but for surviving. Just breathing. Just getting through the day.

Music has always been a comfort to me, but this was different. This song wasn’t trying to cheer me up or tell me it would all be okay. It sat with me in the dark and whispered, “Me too.”

Over the next few weeks, I started writing again — just small journal entries at first, then poems. I called my sister. I joined a support group. Some days were still hard. Some nights still ended in tears. But now I had a soundtrack for it. And for some reason, that made the pain bearable.

Months later, I went to see Ingrid Michaelson live. I bought a ticket by myself, sat in the back, and when she started playing “Keep Breathing,” I cried all over again. But this time, it was different. Healing tears. Grateful ones. I looked around the crowd and saw dozens of other faces — people who had probably been saved by a song too.

Music is weird like that. It bypasses the logic part of your brain and goes straight to your soul. It doesn’t need you to explain or justify your feelings. It just lets you have them.

I still have hard days. But I also have a playlist titled “Songs That Brought Me Back.” At the top of that list is “Keep Breathing.” Every time I hear it, I remember the girl on the bedroom floor who didn’t know if she’d make it — and I silently thank her for holding on.

Because sometimes, surviving is the most rebellious thing you can do.

And sometimes, all you can do is keep breathing.