Art, in itself, can only be explained as a gift from God. In times of war, great depression, isolation, pain, and suffering, we are kept sane by a connection. The human species, in totality, is fairly interesting. We are the only species known to evolution that is so egotistical, yet, in totality, so utterly weak. We create rules, routines, and traditions for ourselves because, otherwise, we would destroy each other. Instead of mourning and accepting the fact that there is war, danger, and fear in the world, we distract ourselves with hours of meaningless content. I find that stupidly, utterly idiotic. However, I procrastinated until the day this was due, and even then, distracted myself with reels, so who am I to judge? As humans, we survive because we distract ourselves from the inevitable, until that distraction fails us too.

I spent hours trying to write this post. I originally wanted to spend 600 words ranting about my favorite musical, Hamilton, then I realized I simply couldn’t find the words to explain my love for musical theater. It really got me thinking, though. Musical theater, to me, has always been my escape. I was always told I was mature for my age, even as a kid, so musical theater, in a sense, became my outlet to let my childhood shine through. I did theater for a few years, but I had to stop for personal reasons. Nonetheless, it pushed me further into enjoying the art of musicals. I built a connection with the world of theater, and when I’d feel somber, I noticed myself leaning into this magical world I created to cope with pain and tragedy.

For three years in a row, my Spotify has been filled with all different kinds of musicals, yet I still can’t answer the simple question: why do I love them so much? On my 15th birthday, I finally saw my first live musical—Hamilton. Embarrassingly enough, I cried multiple times that night and was left floored. On the way home, I couldn’t stop ranting to my grandma about how amazing it was. Seeing something I connected to so deeply, which brought me such joy when I had forgotten what joy felt like, was truly magical.

A similar experience occurred when I saw Green Day on my 16th birthday, especially when they played my childhood song, “Good Riddance (Time of Your Life).” I felt my childhood come back to me—back when life was simple, and I was just a little girl sitting beside her dad, asking who sang that song. This song, which was once a symbol of hope, joy, and naivety, became a reminder that the idea of my dad was no more than that—an idea. One messy divorce later, the song became more of a reminder of pain than a connection to my inner child. Growing older meant hearing the truth, which broke that piece of inner childhood that lived within me.

It took a while to look beyond the connection I had built with that song and its origin. However, I learned that I didn’t need to forget where it came from, but instead, be happy it happened and use the song as a catalyst for my innocence. Why forget what happened when I can remember that, at age five, I was having the time of my life? A tragic, beautiful irony.

I could go on about how, for me, music is more than a sound; it’s a place, a time, a feeling. Music is less about the notes and more about being a time capsule that reminds me of feelings or connections. I wouldn’t say I am the most religious, but if that isn’t a gift from God, I don’t know what is.

Often, when talking about live music to people, they describe it as unexplainable, an addicting ecstasy, or an enchanting delight—something that brings people together and sparks joy. To me, music is an understanding of weakness and a way to hope for the future. Music is art, and art is hope. Art feeds the soul, embodying who you were and who you want to become. Maybe music isn’t as much of a distraction as it is a reminder of what we’ve overcome. A symbol of hope, a way to move forward. Humans are still weak, but we connect through that weakness and demonstrate our authentic selves. I guess that’s what life is all about.

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