Dear friends,
I still remember slipping into a Sunday evening church service as a little girl and taking a seat near the back. I did not come in with big expectations. I just followed the adults and tried to sit still.
Then the singing began, and the sound filled the room in a way that made me feel safe. My shoulders dropped. My breathing slowed. The noise in my mind quieted. I did not have language for what was happening then, but I felt it in my body. I walked out steadier than when I walked in.
Music is medicine and a universal communicator. It can both lift and sober you, open the door to memory, and help you release what you have been holding in your body. Music can reconnect you to the part of yourself that still feels steady.
Life has kept proving that same point. When we carry a lot, our bodies start talking. They show it in tight shoulders, shallow breathing, headaches, interrupted sleep, and a shorter fuse than we recognize at first. You can keep showing up and doing what needs to be done, but the body does not pretend for long.
In moments like that, people reach for what helps. Rest. Prayer. Movement. A good conversation. I support all of that. I also want to name something we don’t always honor enough. Music can help your body come back to itself.
Summer has a way of stirring things up. The days get longer, and the pace picks up. We move around and gather more. This season can also nudge us to think about what has carried us through hard days and held us steady in good ones.
June gives us a natural doorway into that reflection, with Black Music Month and Juneteenth reminding us that our songs have always carried more than melody.
Long before many of us had access to care, we had rhythm. We had drums and choirs, and records and radios. We had songs that told the truth when it was not safe to say it out loud, and sounds that carried grief, joy, and endurance.
My first relationship with music began in the church. I remember the choir and the pipe organ, and I remember the hush that came over the room when the organist began to play. Even as a child, I understood that music could create reflection and respect without anyone giving a speech. It’s one of the reasons I’m a member of a choir today.
In my younger days I remember that my mother brought music into the house through records. She loved musicals like Oklahoma, South Pacific, and The King and I. We played them until we knew them by heart. I also took piano lessons for a while, and although I was not the most eager student, I learned something important. Music requires attention. It asks you to be present.
As I got older, Motown became a steady home base. The Temptations and the Four Tops could take me back to a lighter place in the middle of a heavy day. Later, as a young adult, I discovered gospel music in a new way. I found it uplifting and grounding when I needed hope.
That is why I say music is medicine.
It can both lift and sober you. It can open the door to memory and help you release what you have been holding in your body. Music can also reconnect you to the part of yourself that still feels steady.
And this is not just a nice idea. Music therapy is a real field, and trained professionals use music intentionally as part of care.
Science supports what many of us have known through experience. A 2025 review in JMIR Mental Health found that music can lower stress signals in the body, including stress hormone levels and blood pressure, while also helping people feel less anxious.
For Black communities, this idea has always lived in our experience. Music carried faith when it felt fragile, hope when it felt risky, and meaning when life demanded courage and restraint.
Healing also does not always happen alone. I love attending concerts that exalt spirituals, gospel, and R&B because community and social connection is also important. Being in a room where people sing, sway, and breathe together does something to the spirit.
If you have heard me deliver a keynote, you may have noticed that I often end with a song. I do that because I want you to leave with something you can carry into the coming days. A song can bring closure, reinforce the message, and meet people in a way that words sometimes cannot.
Music is a universal communicator. Most people connect to it in some way. We may not share love of the same genres, but you can still find a sound that meets you where you are. Try something simple this month:
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Build a small healing playlist. Choose five songs that calm you, five that energize you, and five that help you release emotion when you need to.
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Use one song as a reset. When you feel your shoulders tighten or your thoughts race, play a single song and breathe slowly until you feel your body soften.
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Add gentle movement. Sway in your kitchen, stretch in your living room, or take a short walk while the song plays.
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Sing on purpose. Sing in the car or in the shower, because singing changes breathing, and breathing changes stress.
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Share music with someone you love. Ask them what song carried them through a hard season, then listen together for a few minutes.
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If you care for someone with memory loss, ask about music. Familiar songs can spark connection when words feel far away, and a care team can help you choose a safe and supportive approach.
Music does not replace medical care, but it belongs in your care.
I keep thinking about that Sunday evening church service from my childhood. I walked in as a little girl who did not know what she needed. I walked out feeling steadier, and I can name why now. The music helped my body feel safe enough to rest.
If your body has been holding a lot lately, let music hold you for a while.
With your health in mind,
