Latest / She Survived: Stories of Courage, Recovery & Reinvention / Why Closing Your Eyes to Music Heals Your Exhausted Nervous System | She Survived
Transcript
- There is a specific kind of tired that sleep doesn’t fix, the kind that lives in your shoulders and hums beneath your skin. It’s not just fatigue; it’s your nervous system screaming for a place to rest. I want you to take a moment right now, before we go anywhere else. Just notice where you are. Are you sitting at your kitchen counter while the dishes pile up? Lying on the floor because moving feels like too much? Or maybe you’re in your car, engine off, gripping the wheel, staring at your front door as if it might swallow you whole. I see you. I know that weight. It’s heavy, isn’t it? It’s the kind of heaviness that comes from holding everything together when every fiber of your being wants to let go. For years, I thought resilience meant pushing harder. I thought if I just grit my teeth, drank another cup of coffee, and forced a smile, I could outlast the exhaustion. But here is the truth I learned the hard way, after decades of trying to be strong for everyone else: you cannot build a life on a foundation of collapse. Your body knows when you are running on empty long before your mind admits it. And today, I want to talk about something so simple, so quiet, that we often dismiss it. Something that doesn’t require effort, or strength, or willpower. It only requires surrender. We live in a world that celebrates our ability to do three things at once. Check emails while folding laundry. Listen to a podcast while driving through traffic. Scroll through social media while eating dinner with people we love. We wear our busyness like a badge of honor, as if our worth is tied to how much noise we can generate without breaking. But this constant stimulation, this relentless input, keeps your nervous system in a state of low-grade alarm. It’s like leaving a light on in every room of your house, night after night, until the bulb burns out and the wiring starts to fray. You start feeling wired but tired, anxious but numb. You’re present, but you’re not really here. You’re just reacting. And in that state, healing is impossible. You can’t heal what you refuse to feel, and you can’t rest what you refuse to release. So we look for big solutions. We buy expensive retreats, we sign up for intense workouts, we try to meditate for an hour when we can barely sit still for five minutes. But sometimes, the answer isn’t adding more to your plate. Sometimes, it’s taking one thing away. I remember a Tuesday, about ten years ago, when I was completely broken. I had just left a situation that required me to be small, to shrink myself down until I fit into someone else’s expectations. It was similar to what we talked about last week, walking out of disrespect, but this was different. This was internal. I had walked out, yes, but I hadn’t walked back into myself. I was exhausted in a way that made my bones ache. I came home, dropped my bag by the door, and put on my favorite record. It was an old jazz track, something soft and slow. Normally, I would have kept watching TV, or checking my phone, or thinking about tomorrow’s to-do list. But that day, I did something radical. I closed my eyes. I didn’t try to analyze the melody. I didn’t try to fall asleep. I just listened. I let the cello notes wash over me, and for the first time in months, I stopped performing. I stopped managing. I just existed in the sound. And in that silence between the notes, I felt something shift. It wasn’t a lightning bolt. It was quieter than that. It was a sigh. A deep, cellular exhale. It sounds almost too simple to be true, but there is real science behind why closing your eyes while listening to music can heal nervous exhaustion. When you keep your eyes open, even in a dark room, your brain is processing visual data. It’s scanning for threats, for movement, for information. It’s working. Even if you’re sitting perfectly still, your visual cortex is active. But when you close your eyes, you cut off that massive stream of sensory input. You give your brain permission to stop scanning. You signal safety to your body. And when you pair that with music—especially music that resonates with your emotional state—you create a safe container for your feelings to move through. Music bypasses the logical part of your brain and goes straight to the limbic system, where emotion lives. It regulates your heart rate. It lowers cortisol. It tells your nervous system, 'You are safe now. You can rest.' It’s not magic. It’s biology. But it feels like grace. So, how do we practice this? It’s not about creating a perfect meditation studio. It’s about finding the cracks in your day and letting the light in. Start small. Maybe it’s during your morning shower. Turn off the water for two minutes. Put on your headphones. Close your eyes. Let the music fill the space where your worry usually sits. Or maybe it’s while you’re cooking dinner. Instead of watching a show, listen to an album from beginning to end. Stand in the kitchen. Feel the steam on your face. Hear the bass line in your chest. Notice how your shoulders drop. Notice how your jaw unclenches. This isn’t about escaping reality. It’s about returning to yourself. In a world that demands your attention constantly, choosing to withdraw it is an act of rebellion. It’s saying, 'I matter enough to rest.' It’s saying, 'My peace is non-negotiable.' You don’t need to do it perfectly. If your mind wanders, that’s okay. Gently bring it back to the sound. To the vibration. To the breath. That gentle return is where the healing happens. I used to think that if I couldn’t achieve a state of perfect calm, then the practice wasn’t working. I’d get frustrated if my thoughts raced, if I felt restless, if I missed a note. But then I realized that the goal isn’t perfection. The goal is presence. The turning point was tiny, just like I said. It wasn’t about silencing the noise forever. It was about learning to hear the music beneath it. There is beauty in the mess. There is power in the pause. When you close your eyes and listen, you are giving yourself permission to be imperfect. To be tired. To be human. You are acknowledging that you have carried a lot, and that it’s okay to set it down for a few minutes. This practice is a gift you give yourself, again and again. It’s a reminder that you are not defined by your productivity. You are defined by your capacity to feel, to heal, to grow. And growth often happens in the quietest moments, when no one is watching, when you are finally alone with your own soul. As you move through your day, I invite you to try this. Just once. Find a song that makes your heart swell or your eyes sting. Put it on. Close your eyes. Breathe into it. Let the music hold you. Notice what arises. Is it sadness? Relief? Joy? Fear? Whatever it is, let it be there. Don’t push it away. Don’t judge it. Just witness it. You are stronger than you know, but you are also allowed to be soft. You are allowed to need rest. You are allowed to find joy in the small things, like a melody that understands you better than anyone else does. This is how we rebuild. Not with grand gestures, but with gentle returns. Day by day. Note by note. Breath by breath. You are doing better than you think. You are healing in ways you can’t yet see. And you are never alone in this. I’m right here with you, in the quiet, listening. Thank you for letting me into your space today. Take care of that beautiful, tired heart of yours. I’ll see you next time. Breathe easy.