The Noise That Understood Me

Finding hope and healing in lyrics that spoke my pain

A close-up of tangled headphones

Content Warning: This article discusses sensitive topics, including suicide and mental health struggles. If you're in the UK and need support, you can contact Samaritans 24/7 by calling 116 123 or texting SHOUT to 85258 for confidential support. In other countries, please seek help from your local support services. You are not alone.

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I don’t often talk about my teenage years. Not because they’ve faded from memory—they haven’t. Those years linger in my mind, sharp and vivid, etched like lyrics I can’t forget.

There were nights when the weight of my emotions felt unbearable, when I believed the pain was permanent, and when I thought the world would be better off without me in it. I tried to end my life twice during those years. That’s not an easy sentence to write.

But somehow, I’m still here. And I’ve spent years reflecting on exactly what held me here.

At the time, I couldn’t imagine a future where the heaviness would lift. I couldn’t see beyond the pain that consumed me. But there was one thing—one lifeline—that kept me tethered to this world: music.

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The Noise That Understood Me

I didn’t turn to soft, soothing melodies to escape the chaos in my mind. Instead, I found solace in the raw, electric, unapologetic noise of bands like Linkin Park and Evanescence.

Their music wasn’t trying to fix me or cheer me up. It wasn’t pretending the pain wasn’t real. Instead, it met me exactly where I was—in the darkness, in the anger, in the suffocating silence of my own thoughts.

When Chester Bennington screamed about crawling in his skin or Amy Lee sang about being haunted by her thoughts, it felt like someone had reached inside my chest and put my feelings into words. Their songs didn’t tell me to be stronger or that things would magically get better—they simply said, I see you. You’re not alone.

And that was enough.

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A Lifeline in the Darkness

Music became the friend I didn’t know how to ask for. It gave me a way to process emotions I couldn’t name, a way to sit with my pain without feeling completely swallowed by it.

The truth is, when you’re in that dark place, you don’t always need someone to fix you. You just need someone—or something—that can sit with you in the pain, acknowledge it, and remind you that you’re not invisible.

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Lessons from the Darkest Moments

Now, years later, I can see that music wasn’t just a lifeline—it was a teacher. Surviving those years taught me lessons I didn’t understand at the time, but that have stayed with me ever since.

1. You Don’t Have to Be Okay to Keep Going
   Back then, I thought I needed to feel strong or hopeful to survive. I didn’t realise that surviving is messy, unglamorous work. It’s about taking one breath, one step, one moment at a time. Some days, the only thing I could do was listen to another song and remind myself to exist for another minute. And sometimes, that’s enough.

2. Your Lifeline Can Be Anything
   For me, it was music. For someone else, it might be art, a book, a pet, or the simple act of getting outside. It doesn’t have to be profound or make sense to anyone else. What matters is that it keeps you tethered to this world when everything else feels too much.

3. Kindness Matters More Than You Know
   In my darkest moments, the smallest acts of kindness stood out like stars against a dark sky. A smile from a stranger. A teacher who noticed I wasn’t okay. Those moments didn’t fix everything, but they reminded me that I wasn’t invisible.

4. You Are Not Your Pain
   Pain can feel all-encompassing, like it’s the only thing that defines you. But what I wish I’d known back then is this: your pain is a part of your story, but it’s not the whole story. You are still capable of joy, love, and connection—even when it feels out of reach.

5. You Don’t Have to Fight Alone
   I didn’t know how to ask for help as a teenager. I thought admitting I was struggling would mean I was weak. But the truth is, we’re not meant to carry our pain alone. Whether it’s a friend, a therapist, or even the voice of a stranger in a song, there’s strength in letting someone in.

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To Anyone Struggling

If you’re reading this and you’ve been where I was, I want you to know this: your pain is real, but so is your strength. Even if it feels like the darkness will never end, I promise you—it doesn’t last forever.

Sometimes, survival isn’t about fixing everything at once. It’s about finding that one thing to hold on to—a song, a person, a promise you make to yourself to see tomorrow.

And if you’re someone who hasn’t experienced this kind of pain, but you know someone who has, I hope this helps you understand them a little better. Sometimes, the most powerful thing you can do is simply sit with someone in their pain and remind them that they’re not alone.

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Why I Still Listen

I still go back to those songs sometimes. Not because I’m in that dark place anymore, but because they remind me of who I was—and how far I’ve come.

They remind me that even in the raw, messy, unfiltered chaos of life, there is beauty. There is connection. There is something worth holding on to.

If you’re holding on by a thread, I see you. I hear you. And I hope you’ll find your own lifeline—whatever that may be.

With love,
Salwa

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I write Quietly Becoming for those who crave honest, raw reflections on growth, boundaries, and mental well-being. If you found this helpful, join the subscriber community for exclusive deep dives, personal insights, and practical tools to support your own journey.

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With love,

Salwa