It wasn’t until my sophomore year of high school that I felt like I couldn’t live without music.

I was in the throes of the coronavirus pandemic’s lockdown, and my then-undiagnosed anxiety, ADHD and depression were making it practically impossible for me to get anything I needed to do done, let alone exude an excitement for life.

Even after the world returned to “normal,” my symptoms stuck around, unignorable. I was at what was probably the lowest point of my life, and I felt utterly alone and unable to verbalize what I was feeling to those who cared about me. Not only did the prospect of explaining my emotions seem out of reach, but as an extremely independent person, confiding in someone else or asking for help felt uncomfortable and daunting.

So I did the only thing I knew how to do: I caved inward. I wallowed, rotted, became a shell of the once optimistic and extroverted person I used to be. 

My own mind was a prison; my thoughts, hostile cellmates following me everywhere I went. I was estranged from myself and scared of what darker secrets I’d uncover if I dug deeper into my brain. Nonetheless, not knowing myself felt like a much more unnerving fate than finding out truths about myself that I didn’t like. 

Looking back, I’m not even sure this commitment to understanding myself was a conscious decision as much as a survival instinct. Without other available coping mechanisms, if I wanted to save myself, I had no choice but to face what was lurking within. Ultimately, it ended up taking a lot more time and therapy sessions to get better, but focusing on self-discovery was a good first step for acclimating to life with my disorders.

Out of my need to understand the emotions I didn’t know how to think about or outwardly express, I began hoarding songs that I resonated with. 

I may not have known everything about what my eventual diagnoses would entail, or what I needed to feel stable again, but I did know that I felt Phoebe Bridgers’ version of “That Funny Feeling,” Conan Gray’s “Comfort Crowd” and Harry Styles’ “Falling” to my core. 

Through lyrics like “Total disassociation, fully out of your mind,” “This hurt that I’m holding’s gettin’ heavy” and “What am I now? What am I now? / What if I’m someone I don’t want around?” I realized that other people out in the world were also exhausted with life, doubting their personal value and unsure of the best path forward. 

The way these musicians placed words and rhythms to the feelings that I had felt for so long but didn’t know how to express gave me a way to think and talk about what I was going through. Moreover, listening to such songs allowed me to come to a revelation that changed everything for me: I was not alone. 

Of course, this knowledge didn’t magically eradicate my symptoms, but it did empower me to feel less ashamed of my mental health struggles. Equipped with both improved abilities to communicate about my feelings and less self-judgment, I finally opened up to my loved ones about how I was really doing and was able to receive the help I needed. 

By giving me the tools to understand myself and explain what I was going through, music played a crucial role in my healing process that I’m eternally grateful for. Today, music continues to serve as a deeply impactful way for me to introspect as well as express my emotions to those I care about. 

I am happy to report that in the past year, my mental health was the best it has been since my early teens. Still, progress isn’t always linear, and I am affected by the ups and downs of life just like all of us are. 

In navigating more recent hard times, I again immersed myself in music. From heavy goodbyes to complicated friendship ties, my favorite hard-hitting songs got me through by making me feel seen and enhancing my ability to verbalize my feelings.

Albums like Lizzy McAlpine’s “Older,” boygenius’ “the record,” Billie Eilish’s “HIT ME HARD AND SOFT,” Laufey’s “Bewitched” and Gracie Abrams’ “The Secret of Us” were particularly meaningful for me this year. I connected with their themes of complex relationships, guilt for past mistakes and the consequences of sacrificing your own well-being for people you care about. 

Through listening to these albums — perhaps even obsessively, at times — I not only further self-reflected but also became more connected to my friends. 

I kept opening up, whether in my own words or using my favorite musicians as mouthpieces, finding that many of my friends have gone through similar experiences to mine. Through the vulnerability of sharing our feelings with each other, we were able to get to know each other’s intricacies better and support each other on a deeper level than before. In these moments, music once again proved crucial for my comfort with myself and my closeness with others.   

I’ve learned from how music has affected my life — both in the past and more recently — that music transcends. Lyrics can transcend loneliness, melodies can transcend melancholia and verses can transcend vices. Music is the window to the soul or, at the very least, it is the window into mine. 

“Jam Journal” is a rotating column featuring a new Daily Trojan editor in each installment commenting on the music most important to them. Dor Peretz is an opinion editor at the Daily Trojan.