Actually, I'm not fine… blog

Part 5: Music, Rituals, and Small Lifelines

Trigger Warning (18+): This post touches on mental health struggles, self-harm, and suicidal thoughts. Intended for adult readers. If you are in immediate danger, call your local emergency number now.

When the big things are breaking, the small things sometimes keep you afloat.
For me, it was songs. It was the scruff of an opening lyric that landed in my chest and said, without judgement, I hear you. It was the ritual of making tea at just the right temperature, of slipping into a jacket that smelled like me, of checking the lock twice and feeling the click like a tiny assurance. These moments didn’t fix everything, but they were lifelines — steady, small practices that stitched a little strength into days that otherwise felt impossible.

I learned to collect tiny rituals the way some people collect shells on a beach. They looked ordinary to anyone else, but together they made up a survival kit.

Music as medicine
Music didn’t cure me. It didn’t erase the fights, the shame, or the nights when I couldn’t breathe. But it gave me language for what I couldn’t say. Lyrics that matched my anger, songs that understood the ache, tracks that let me scream into my car without scaring anyone — these were vital.

Sometimes the right song offered permission: permission to feel, to grieve, to rage, to keep going.

Here’s how music helped me in practical ways:

• Anchoring: I made playlists for different states — one for morning courage, one for quiet, one for when I needed to get angry and move energy. Hearing the first track became the cue: this is the space for that feeling.
• Translation: Lyrics put feelings into words. When I couldn’t name what was happening inside, a line from a song could: “I’m a little bit broken, but not beyond repair.” That recognition is unbelievably relieving.
• Ritualized release: Some songs were for walking fast, some for crying, some for dancing like nobody’s watching. All of it was allowed.

Rituals that hold
Ritual doesn’t need to be formal. It just needs to be reliable. The small, repeated acts that say to your brain: here is something you can count on.

Examples that helped me:

• Morning anchor: A single thing to start my day (a cup of warm lemon water, five minutes of breathing, journaling one sentence).
• Evening closure: A short ritual that marks the end of the day — lighting a candle, writing one thing I noticed that was kind to myself, or a five-minute walk.
• Physical anchors: A bracelet I could touch or a scent I wore when I needed courage. Something sensory that brought me back to now.
• Micro-choices: Choosing one small thing I could control — the color of my nail polish, the playlist for the drive, the book I would read that week.

Small lifelines — more than coping, less than cure
I didn’t always have access to formal therapy or immediate help. So I made lists of tiny lifelines — things I could do in the moment that might shift the edge off a dark thought:

• The 10-minute rule: Commit to 10 minutes of one activity (walking, a playlist, a shower) before making a big decision. Time gives the brain a chance to settle.
• A call-and-script card: Keep a short script by the phone for reaching out. “Hey — I’m having a rough moment. Can you stay on the line with me for five minutes?” Many people want to help but don’t know what to say; scripts make the ask easier.
• Sensory swaps: Ice on the wrist, a cold splash of water, holding something textured — sensory input can interrupt spirals.
• A “done” box: A jar or box of tiny notes with things you’ve survived — even small victories. Pull one when everything feels hopeless and read a reminder of your resilience.

How to build your playlist & ritual kit
You don’t need permission to make something that helps you. Start small:

1. Make one playlist for the moment you most need help (quieting, anger, motivation). Add five songs to start. Test them. Remove what doesn’t land.
2. Pick one morning and one evening ritual. Keep them under five minutes each. Consistency matters more than length.
3. Choose one sensory anchor (a scent, a bracelet, a song) you carry when you leave the house.
4. Write a 10-minute plan and keep it where you can see it. When the urge spikes, use the plan before deciding on anything permanent.

Rituals aren’t a replacement for help
I’ll say it plainly: playlists and rituals are not a substitute for professional care. They’re bridges that can hold you long enough to find help. If you feel like you’re in danger or you’re thinking about harming yourself, reach out for immediate support. The playlists will wait. You won’t.

The generosity of small acts
Once, an older woman with laugh lines told me to “kick ass” and that tiny, blunt kindness stuck for years. It was a ritual I couldn’t buy — someone recognizing me with no agenda, no expectation. Small acts of connection — a compliment to a stranger, a text to a friend, holding a door open — are ways we pass lifelines to each other.

If you’re reading this and you’re trying to collect your own kit: you are doing something important. Tiny things add up. They become proof that you wanted to stay, even when staying was the hardest thing to do.

Reflection prompt: Build a 5-item lifeline list right now. What three songs will you put on your “keep me alive” playlist, and what two micro-rituals will you use when a moment gets heavy?

If you are in immediate danger or thinking of harming yourself, call your local emergency number now.
U.S. Crisis Line: Call or text 988 (24/7).
U.K./Ireland (Samaritans): 116 123.
NEDA (Eating Disorders) Helpline (U.S.): 1-800-931-2237 or text NEDA to 741741.
International: Visit the International Association for Suicide Prevention to find crisis resources in your country.