I remember the exact moment I stopped trusting the numbers on the chart.
It was my fourth round of chemo. The nausea had settled into my bones by then, and the nurses were doing their best to keep my spirits up, but let’s be honest—everyone could see it in my face. The exhaustion. The fear. The quiet calculations I made every time the doctor walked in with a clipboard.
And yet, I smiled. Posed for pictures. Wore the beanie my niece knitted and told my sister I was “feeling stronger already.” Lying became second nature. But deep down, I knew something wasn’t clicking. The meds were doing what they were supposed to… but I wasn’t getting better.
Until I brought my headphones in.
It started small. I’d play a playlist I used to run to, back before any of this. Just in one ear, softly, while I sat through the drip. “Background motivation,” I told myself.
But something shifted.
I stopped feeling completely trapped in the sterile room. The music, the familiar beat, the rhythm—it made the hours feel less suffocating. The numbers on the charts, the ones that told me how I was progressing, still weren’t what I wanted to see. But at least the music made it easier to breathe.
After a few rounds, I didn’t just listen quietly anymore. I began to move my fingers along with the beat, tapping lightly on the side of the bed. Then, I started to sway my head slowly, just a little. Nothing dramatic, just enough to feel connected to the world outside the hospital walls.
The nurses, at first, raised an eyebrow. But after a while, I noticed them smiling when they walked in. I’m sure it wasn’t the treatment doing it—they’d seen it all before. But there was something about how the music made me seem… alive, like I wasn’t entirely consumed by the treatments.
One day, as the cold fluid dripped into my veins, I saw my doctor pause by the door. He wasn’t one for small talk, and his face was often serious, his mind somewhere in the charts and data he always carried around. But today, his eyes softened when he saw the playlist on my phone screen.
“Old school rock?” he asked, his lips curving into a small grin.
I nodded, turning the volume up just a little bit, feeling the bass in my chest. “It’s the only thing that feels real anymore. I’m not sure why, but it helps.”
The doctor paused for a moment, then said, “Maybe we should look at this a little more closely. Music therapy has actually shown some benefits in terms of mood improvement during treatment. It’s not conventional, but there’s no harm in trying to bring more joy into your life right now.”
That moment felt like a flicker of hope—something I hadn’t felt in a long time. In a way, my doctor had just given me permission to keep doing what felt good, even if it wasn’t what the textbooks said I should be doing.
From that point, I started making it a habit. Every chemo session, I brought my headphones. I picked songs that made me feel strong, songs that made me feel like I could outrun the pain. I created new playlists each week, each one designed to give me something to look forward to, something to keep me anchored.
The chemo wasn’t changing. My blood counts didn’t suddenly spike in ways I could explain. But something about the music made me feel different. I found myself laughing more, even during the difficult moments. I was letting myself cry, too—because, somehow, the music made it okay to feel vulnerable.
Then, one day, my nurse came in while I was humming along to a song, my eyes closed. She’d seen me through so many rounds, through so many quiet, grim moments, but today was different. She walked over to my bed with a curious look.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like this before,” she said. “This… peaceful. You look like you’re really in it today, in a good way.”
I opened my eyes and smiled. “You know, I think I am. The music does something to me. It’s like I can forget about the needles, the tubes, the constant waiting. It just… helps.”
She nodded slowly. “Maybe you’re onto something. You know, we’ve seen some patients respond better when they can focus on something that brings them comfort or joy during treatment. It’s the little things.”
That comment hit me harder than it should have. The little things. It made me think about how much time I’d spent fighting against the treatment. I’d been so fixated on the idea that the numbers on the chart defined my progress, that the daily struggles of chemo were the only thing I should focus on. But music? Music was about living. About being present.
I hadn’t expected it to work. Honestly, I thought the music was just a distraction, a way to make the unbearable bearable. But as weeks went by, I started to notice something surprising. I wasn’t just enduring anymore. I was fighting back, even if it was in a way no one could measure.
Then came the twist. It was one of those moments that seemed like pure luck, or maybe just the universe aligning for a brief moment of grace. My doctor walked in after my latest scan and, for once, he wasn’t carrying his usual somber expression.
“Your numbers are improving,” he said, almost as if surprised himself. “Not dramatically, but we’re seeing some positive shifts. Your white blood cell count is up, and the tumors are shrinking. They’re not gone, but… it’s progress.”
I sat up, a mix of disbelief and cautious hope flooding me. “Wait, you mean… the chemo’s actually working?”
“Yes,” he said slowly. “But it’s not just the chemo. The emotional and mental side of treatment matters too. It’s part of why you’re feeling better, why your outlook has shifted.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. The music—the simple act of connecting with something outside of my illness—was actually contributing to my recovery. It wasn’t a cure. But it was a part of the equation I had never considered. And, somehow, it made all the difference.
From that point, I leaned into it more. I added new practices to my routine. Yoga. Breathing exercises. Meditation. I kept my playlists close, letting the music guide me through every challenge. And every day, no matter how small, I celebrated the fact that I was still here. The illness had tried to take everything from me, but I was slowly regaining pieces of myself that I thought I’d lost.
Weeks turned into months, and as my chemo treatments wound down, I felt more like myself than I had in years. I wasn’t just surviving. I was living. And that was something I hadn’t been able to say before.
The greatest reward, however, came when I realized that the most important change wasn’t in my health. It was in my mindset. I had learned that healing wasn’t just about the treatments, the medications, or the charted numbers. Healing was about my will to live, my ability to embrace joy even in the darkest of moments.
And that lesson? That lesson was priceless.
It wasn’t about ignoring the pain or pretending everything was fine. It was about allowing myself to feel joy, to remember the things that made me feel alive, and to fight for those moments, no matter how small. I didn’t have to wait until the numbers on the chart matched the dream in my head. I could live fully, right here and now.
If you’re going through something tough, whether it’s illness, loss, or any other challenge, remember this: the things that bring you joy—whether it’s music, laughter, or even a moment of peace—are just as important as the treatment itself. Find those things, and let them help you heal.
