Some songs don’t just remind me of the past — they put me back in it. They don’t just play in my ears; they move through my bones and stir something old and fast and free. At sixteen, I didn’t fully understand myself, but I understood what it meant to feel something intensely — especially when a song gave me permission to.

What I didn’t realize then was that I wasn’t just listening to music. I was using it. To escape. To imagine. To become.

Years later, those same songs still find me. Not with the same urgency — but with something maybe deeper. The feeling doesn’t leave. It just softens, then returns when I least expect it.

Let me take you back — first to the road, then to the music, and then to something still burning inside me.

Driving through becoming

Back then, driving meant more than getting from one place to another — it felt like flying.

Out on those Kansas roads, the sky was too big to ignore and the space between towns too quiet to fill with anything but music. Windows down, night air rushing in, I wasn’t just moving — I was becoming. Something about being in motion made me feel real.

The world outside was flat, but inside the car, I was full of speed and spark. Journey’s “Only the Young” hit the speakers and everything else fell away. I wasn’t going anywhere important, but somehow it felt like I was going everywhere all at once.

I pressed the gas. I wasn’t chasing anything. I just needed to feel fast.

The music made sense before I did

At sixteen, emotions hit hard but made little sense. Music helped me make sense of them anyway.

I didn’t understand much about love, or even myself. But when Steve Perry’s voice soared above a guitar that felt like fire, I believed him. I believed there was more out there — and maybe even more inside me.

A girl gave me a mixtape once. The first track was “Crazy for You.” I knew what it meant, but I didn’t know what to do with that knowing. Still, I listened to that tape like it had answers. Like somehow, each song could help me figure out how to be someone worth loving.

I wasn’t there yet. But I was getting closer — with every verse, every note.

Music turned into memory

Years later, I wasn’t driving under stars — I was sitting on a bench in Madison Park.

The sky was heavy and green, the air thick. My book stayed closed on my lap, forgotten. Somewhere nearby, a jazz trio played for tips. I was older, slower, and the roads were different now.

But then, “Stone In Love” played over a speaker somewhere, and suddenly the past lit up. I was back in the car. Sixteen again. Everything loud and alive.

It reminded me that music doesn’t fade. It waits. And when I hear it, I remember the boy I was, the roads I drove, the longing I carried, and the ways I carved myself out of chords and chorus.

Watching others become

I’ve raised two kids past sixteen now. I’ve watched them run and stumble and chase down parts of themselves just like I did.

One of them writes like they’re etching lightning into the world. The other’s music could tie a knot around your heart and not let go. I see myself in them — not just in what they do, but in how deeply they feel.

They don’t always understand it yet. But that’s okay. I didn’t either.
What matters is that they’re moving — fast, wild, beautifully uncertain.

And every time they play Journey in the car, I don’t just hear it — I remember it in my bones.

I’m still fast

That day in the park, I gave up on reading. I put in my headphones, opened Spotify, and queued up Journey’s Greatest Hits.

The first song was “Only the Young.”
And just like that — I was driving again. The sky opened wide. The road stretched out. And I remembered that version of me who believed music could make him fly.

I’m not sixteen anymore. But I’ve loved deeply. I’ve made things that last. I’ve felt joy so sharp it left a mark.

And sometimes — when the right song plays — I’m still fast.

When the Song Still Knows You was originally published in Bloom Within on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.