This Song Hurts in All the Right Places

7.18.25

Some songs don’t just play—they pull.

Tonight, it was Friend of Mine by Kameron Marlowe. It didn’t just echo in my ears—it echoed in me. Every note, every line, felt like a mirror I wasn’t ready to look into. But I did. And now the ache is louder than usual.

I don’t know how many times I’ve told myself I was past it—the love, the pain, the weight of what didn’t work out. But heartache doesn’t keep a calendar. It just lingers. It shows up quietly when things slow down, when a song hits the right chord, or when a memory knocks in the middle of an ordinary moment.

It’s strange how pain can become familiar. Like a companion. Not welcome, not wanted—but known. It’s almost easier to sit with the ache than to imagine what it would mean to finally let go of it. Because what’s left after that? Who am I without it?

I think part of me still believes that healing means forgetting. But maybe it’s more about learning to carry the memories without letting them carry me. I’m not there yet. But I’m writing this, and that means I’m trying. That means I haven’t given up.

One day I want to play a song like this and feel something softer. Not numbness. Not regret. Just peace.

Until then, I’ll keep writing. Keep breathing. Keep moving, even if it’s slow.