Growing up with MTV, cassette tapes, and neon signs, music was always there, subtly shaping the moments of adolescence. Each beat and lyric seemed to find its place, adding meaning to the disarray of growing up. Those songs quietly shaped who I was becoming.
Some songs felt like more than just music. Tracks like Whitesnake’s “Here I Go Again” or U2’s “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For” spoke directly to the restless energy of youth in the ’80s. When those chords began, the radio’s volume surged, daring the speakers to hold up. Car windows slid down, the wind rushed in, voices rose to meet the chorus, and hands tapped rhythms on the dashboard.
But it wasn’t just the sound—it was what the words did. “Here I go again on my own… down the only road I’ve ever known.” Or Bono’s searching confession: “I have climbed the highest mountains… I have run through the fields…” These weren’t just lyrics; they were invitations—to wander, to step beyond the predictable, to chase something bigger that hadn’t yet taken shape but felt essential to find.
The car became more than a way to get from one place to another. It was a haven, a space where everything else faded away. Whether it was my best friend Rabia’s sticky-dash Toyota Corolla or my brother’s gasoline-scented Nissan Z, the car felt like its own small universe. The music was always loud, filling the air and pushing everything else to the background. In those moments, it wasn’t just about the drive—it was about freedom, wrapped in a beat.
When “Here I Go Again” played, it wasn’t David Coverdale’s song anymore. It was Rabia’s. Her hands gripped the steering wheel, her voice brimming with confidence as she sang, “Like a drifter, I was born to walk alone.” She wasn’t just driving; she was commanding the moment, guiding us through a world that felt both too big and somehow not big enough. The destination never really mattered. The music provided its own direction, replacing uncertainty with rhythm and offering an escape that didn’t need permission.
One Saturday, parked at the edge of an unfamiliar field, the opening chords of “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For” spilled from the speakers. For a moment, it was just the music—Bono’s voice, raw and searching, stretching the moment. “I have climbed the highest mountains… I have run through the fields.” Those lyrics bridged the stillness of where we were to everything that felt just out of reach. They didn’t provide answers, but they gave us space to breathe. Restlessness became curiosity, longing transformed into hope, and the weight of questions felt lighter in the music.
There were heavier days too, when everything felt overwhelming—school, fragile friendships, the looming uncertainty of the future. Rebellion didn’t always wear black eyeliner or punk clothes; sometimes, it was quieter, hiding in the corners of songs that refused to offer easy resolutions. “Though I keep searching for an answer…” didn’t promise clarity, but it reminded me to hold on and keep moving. Progress wasn’t about figuring it all out—it was about staying in the search. The music became a companion, grounding me while still pushing me forward.
Years later, those songs still find their way back to me. Whenever “Here I Go Again” plays, I’m reminded of those restless drives and the open-ended possibility they carried. The music doesn’t just bring back the past. It threads through who I am now, a quiet reminder that life has never been about finding the perfect destination. It’s about the moments that carry us forward. It’s about the spaces in between, where we discover who we are becoming. The music was never just a soundtrack. It was the journey itself.
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