Hey everyone, I’m not sure how to start this, but I feel like I need to share something I recently discovered about myself. It’s a bit raw and deeply personal, but I hope in sharing this, I might find some peace and perhaps help someone else too. So here goes…
Last weekend, I was helping my mom clean out our attic. It’s a dusty, cramped space filled with all sorts of odds and ends from our past—a treasure trove of lost memories, really. As I was moving an old, heavy box marked ‘Dad’s Stuff,’ something caught my eye. It was a small, weathered cassette tape, the label barely visible but for a few scribbles that said, ‘Nathan’s First Composing.’
I paused. My heart skipped a beat. Nathan, my older brother, was a musical prodigy of sorts when we were kids. He taught himself the piano by ear and would spend hours composing little songs and melodies. I remember how his music filled our house with warmth and joy, even during the most trying times. But when he died suddenly when I was twelve, my family nearly stopped speaking of him, as if that silence could lessen the pain of his absence.
Seeing that cassette was like a ghost reaching out from the past, whispering stories long forgotten. I sat there for a moment, just holding it, the warmth of childhood memories flooding back. I decided to take it with me, anxious yet desperate to hear my brother’s voice again.
That night, after searching online and eventually borrowing an old tape player from a friend, I finally hit ‘play.’ The room filled with the gentle crackle of the tape, and then there it was—his melody. A simple piano composition, familiar and hauntingly beautiful. But what hit me wasn’t just the notes; it was the sound of him humming along softly, like a distant echo from another time.
The music stirred something inside me that I hadn’t felt in years. Tears streamed down my face as I was transported back to our living room, watching Nathan play, his head gently swaying to the rhythm as if the piano was an extension of his being. I realized then, in those precious moments, how much I had buried along with him—my own dreams, feelings, even relationships.
Listening further, at the end of the tape, there was a moment that changed everything. Nathan’s young voice, clear and hopeful, filled the room. “Believe in your magic, little sis. I always hear it in you.”
His words were like a bolt of lightning, electrifying the darkness that had lingered in my soul. My brother believed in me when I didn’t even realize I had given up on believing in myself. I had spent years living in the shadow of his genius, too afraid to find my own path, convinced that his talent was the only one that mattered.
In the days following this discovery, I started to see my life more clearly. I was working a job I didn’t love, maintaining friendships that felt hollow, and hiding parts of myself because I was scared they wouldn’t measure up. But Nathan’s message was a reminder that I needed to rediscover what my own magic was.
So, I took a leap of faith. I signed up for a drawing class—a passion I had abandoned long ago in the wake of grief. Honestly, it feels like I’ve been holding my breath and am finally exhaling. I’m not sure where this path will lead, but I feel alive in a way I haven’t in years.
I guess what I’m trying to say is, sometimes the things we hide or forget might just be the key to finding ourselves again. We owe it to ourselves to listen to those forgotten melodies, to believe in the magic we all hold inside.
Thanks for listening. Sharing this has been as much for me as it is for Nathan. I hope wherever he is, he knows his little sis is finally shining her light.
Love, Sarah