The music in my head has carried me through some of the loneliest times of my life. Whenever life didn’t feel fair, I would put on my headphones and disappear into my own world—a place where I didn’t have to explain or apologize for being different.

On the outside, I rarely showed my loneliness. But inside, I was sinking deeper into the comfort of the music. The louder the songs played, the further I drifted from the world around me. The melodies gave me shelter, but they also built walls I didn’t know how to climb.

In that world of music, I could forget my disability, my fears, and my imperfections. I could imagine a version of myself that was free of judgment. And for a long time, that felt safe. But the more I escaped, the more I missed out on the life waiting for me outside my headphones.

It took me years to see what I was doing to myself. Slowly, I learned to turn the volume down and face what I had been avoiding. It wasn’t easy. I didn’t want to face who I really was, and I didn’t know how to step back into the real world.

Then something shifted. I started to see that my disability wasn’t something to fear. It wasn’t a weakness or a burden—it was part of my strength. What I had spent years hating about myself turned out to be the very power I needed to move forward.

And the music changed, too. It became softer, brighter, full of hope. Instead of drowning out the world, it started guiding me. It reminded me that I could step into life, not away from it.

For the first time, everything felt natural, as if the music and I were in sync with the life I deserved. What once held me back was now helping me rise.

The music had never left me. It had simply transformed—just like I had. And now, it carries me forward, reminding me every day that being different isn’t something to hide. It’s my strength. My voice. My power.