It happened just the other day. I was in a coffee shop, minding my own business when a song started playing—an old love song from the late eighties. And just like that, I was no longer in that café. I was back in high school, awkwardly watching a Christmas dance party, my palms sweaty, my heart racing like it had a mind of its own. It’s funny how music does that—how it hijacks time, drags us back to moments we thought we had buried, and makes us feel things we didn’t sign up for. And let’s be honest, sometimes it’s infuriating. Who said I wanted to revisit that embarrassing chapter of my life?
But that’s the reality. Like it or not, music stitches itself into the fabric of our experiences, binding songs to emotions, places, and people in ways we never agreed to. We don’t get to choose which song gets glued to which memory. A funeral hymn might forever remind us of a loss. A cheesy pop song could transport us to a road trip with friends, windows down, the wind tangling our hair. And sometimes, unfortunately, a once favorite love song turns into an unbearable gut punch after a bad breakup. Music doesn’t care about our preferences. It’s the uninvited guest in our subconscious, hitting the play button whenever it pleases.
This strange power of music isn’t just some poetic nonsense—it’s science. Our brains are wired to connect sound with memory, creating a shortcut that makes a few notes enough to flood us with feelings. That’s why an old jingle from childhood can make us recall the smell of our grandmother’s kitchen, or why a song we barely liked can still remind us of a specific summer. It’s not the melody or the lyrics alone—it’s what they carried when we first heard them. Music is less about sound and more about context.
And yet, for all the nostalgia it brings, music can be a cruel prankster. Have you ever tried to move on from something, only for a song to drag you back? There’s no way to prepare for it. One moment, you’re fine, and the next, you’re standing frozen in the middle of a grocery aisle because the supermarket decided to play your song—the one that belonged to someone who’s no longer around. You try to shake it off, but it’s too late. The music has already done its job.
But maybe that’s also the beauty of it. Maybe music exists to remind us that nothing is ever truly gone. People leave, places change, but the songs remain, stubbornly preserving the moments we think we’ve forgotten. Even pain, when set to music, becomes something almost poetic—a melody of what once was. Perhaps the reason music holds on so tightly to our past is that it knows we need those reminders, whether we like them or not.
Of course, not all musical flashbacks are welcome. Some songs bring warmth, not wounds. A childhood lullaby, a wedding dance, a song played on repeat during the best summer of our lives—these are the ones we seek out, the ones we turn to when we need comfort. In that sense, music is both a curse and a gift, ambushing us with some memories while gently cradling us with others. We can’t control which songs get attached to which moments, but at least we can decide which ones we keep playing.
Maybe, instead of getting annoyed at music’s hold on us, we should embrace it. Let it pull us back to where we need to be, whether for closure, for laughter, or simply as a reminder of who we once were. After all, if life insists on being a playlist of memories, we might as well learn to appreciate the music.
