Send me on my way

There are songs that play at you. And then there are songs that play through you.

I can't always predict when it'll happen, but when it comes on, something in me seems to shift. Before I've even registered what's playing my body already knows. Something lifts.

The song is Send Me On My Way by Rusted Root. And every single time, without fail, it sends me somewhere. I can honestly say that not too many are able to do that.

Science has a reason for this, and I find it beautiful.

Music is one of the only things that activates almost every region of the brain simultaneously - memory, emotion, movement, language, all of it lighting up at once. When a song hits you the right way, your brain releases dopamine, the same chemical triggered by love, by laughter, by the things that make life feel worth living.

Some people get physical chills and researchers call it frisson: the nervous system's response to something it finds profoundly moving.

Your body isn't overreacting. It's recognizing something.

And then there's the transport. The way a song can instantly take you back. A whole world retrieved in seconds. A feeling you thought you'd forgotten, suddenly standing right in front of you. That's not just nostalgia. That's your brain holding something precious for you until you were ready to feel it again.

For me, this song goes somewhere specific.

When I really listen, I see her. The younger me. Little, wide eyed, long brown hair flowing without a care, not yet knowing what was coming but feeling it somehow, the way children feel things before they have words for them.

And in that place that the song takes me, we reach for each other.

"I want to hold her little hand". To tell her: we will run, we will crawl, we will make it through every single part of this. I want to guide her, dance with her, tell her that this is a fabulous life and that even the hard parts were leading somewhere worth arriving.

But here is what moves me most: it goes both ways.

She reaches back. She picks me up with golden hands. The little version of me, the one who hadn't been through any of it yet, who still had that pure and unguarded light, she holds me too. She keeps me safe. She reminds me of something I sometimes forget: that joy doesn't have to be earned. That dancing in the middle of the day for no reason is not silly. That being fully alive is enough.

We meet there, in that song, and we are okay. Every version of me, present at the same time, holding hands, moving forward together.

Send me on my way.

I used to think healing meant letting go of who you were. Leaving her behind as you grew. But I don't believe that anymore, and I miss her!

I think the wholeness that we're looking for isn't somewhere ahead of us. It's in the reunion. The moment you stop outrunning the younger you and turn around, reach out your hand, and say, "Come with me. I've got you. We're going together".

Sometimes a song knows that before you do.

Sometimes it takes a drumbeat, a layering of voices, an unexpected shuffle on a random afternoon, and suddenly you're there. Running. Dancing. Connected. Held by every version of yourself all at once.

And that feels a lot like coming home. 🌻

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✨ Do you have a song that does this to you? One that takes you somewhere specific, or brings someone back, or just makes you feel completely alive for a few minutes? I'd love to know what it is. Leave a comment or hit reply, I have a feeling this one will open something up.

✨ And if you're on your own journey of coming home to yourself, the Quiet Shift Guide is a gentle place to start. It's free, and it was made for exactly this kind of moment. 🌻