69,991 Minutes of Comfort: What Music Means to Me

On Wednesday, December 4, Spotify Wrapped was released. The annual phenomenon, which always drops around early December, is something music listeners look forward to all year. Spotify, one of the world’s most popular streaming services, releases data collected from users’ yearly listening history, including top songs, artists, and genres. Other music streaming services, including Apple Music and YouTube Music, do the same, so nearly all music streamers receive some form of a yearly recap. On the day of Spotify Wrapped’s release, classrooms and halls were filled with students buried in their phones, waving their friends over to discuss their statistics. It seemed that no one was talking about tests or assignments and instead asked the same questions, including “Who were your top artists?”, “What were your top songs?”, and, of course, the one measuring one’s true love for music: “How many minutes did you listen for?”

This year, I listened to 69,991 minutes of music. That’s 1167 hours, 49 days, or 13 percent of a year. Yes: for over a tenth of the year, I was listening to music. In a way, when I first viewed my Spotify Wrapped, I was almost embarrassed by those numbers—didn’t I have anything better to do with that time? Even my friends who consider themselves music fanatics only listened to, on average, around 40,000 minutes, making my results shocking to some. Of course, most of that time wasn’t spent listening and scrutinizing every minute detail of the music; much of my listening time came from working on homework or taking walks outside. Nevertheless, seeing my year in review made it real for me; if I excluded time spent sleeping and in class, the majority of my year was spent with music blasting into my ears. When my friends inevitably commented on this, I couldn’t help but give a sheepish smile, the way I might when admitting that I still haven’t started a big project due the next day. 

Some of my shame stemmed from my favorite music—consisting of female pop artists, such as Taylor Swift or Olivia Rodrigo—not being considered “cool.” When Spotify Wrapped comes out, everyone hopes that some niche indie band will appear on their list of top artists, as if to prove their superior music taste outside of mainstream artists. I find that this arises from the misogyny many female artists still face; the music they produce is considered to be of a lower brow, simply because it’s identified as music “for girls.” Themes of love and tumultuous relationships are ridiculed and categorized as juvenile. When I saw that my top five artists were solely women, that I streamed Swift for 32,809 minutes this year, and that 88 of my 100 top tracks were by women, I felt the hot embarrassment rising up onto my face. Yet somehow I still view my minutes listened to as an accomplishment, regardless of whether the music is “cool” or not. I dedicated that much of my year to something I care so deeply about: music. I love listening to music, especially that of female pop artists, and doesn’t one want to spend their life doing the things they love? 

Music is more than just some form of entertainment for me. Many songs have the ability to bring me to tears; every aspect of them—from their melodies to production to lyrics—resonate emotionally with me in some way. Often, this is because I relate to their lyrics: though the melody and tempo can evoke a feeling, I often find a deeper connection to the artist when listening to the lyrics. They are able to put words to a feeling I never would have been able to describe myself. For example, “Waiting Room” by the indie phenomenon Phoebe Bridgers, details the unreciprocated feelings the artist has for another individual. She asks, “And when broken bodies are washed ashore / Who am I to ask for more, more, more?” This single line carries so many questions I have asked myself: when so many people struggle so much, why do I get to complain or ask for anything? What makes me think I deserve more than what I already have? In the grand scheme of things, do any of my desires or pains even matter? Bridgers encapsulates all of these ideas in one simple, beautiful sentence, far more eloquent than my rambling ideas.

This indescribable feeling of being understood by music, even when I myself don’t know why, cements the emotional attachment I have to certain songs. “Waiting Room” gave me a moment of realization that someone else felt the exact way I did, which somehow affected how I myself felt. Similarly, in Swift’s “this is me trying” from the album folklore, she croons, “I was so ahead of the curve, the curve became a sphere / Fell behind all my classmates and I ended up here / Pouring out my heart to a stranger.” I can see my own fears about my future reflected so plainly in these lyrics, which are beautifully poetic. Oddly, knowing that other people have struggled just as I do helps me handle my fears—perhaps it’s simply out of the knowledge that others turned out alright.  

Songs are the most comforting aspect of my life; when I get home from school and slip on my headphones, the foam muffs sliding into place over my ears, I can finally breathe a real sigh of relief, every muscle unclenching and stressful thought disappearing into the recesses of my mind. The only feeling I can equate this to is when I put on my pajamas before going to bed—but in that scenario, I simply put my body at rest; with my headphones, it’s my body and my mind. 

Taylor Swift once said, “People haven't always been there for me, but music always has.” Coming from a world-famous songwriter and musician, this isn’t a surprising statement. But even to me, an ordinary girl, this sentiment rings true. One of music’s greatest strengths is that anyone and everyone can enjoy and get a lot out of it, regardless of their background in the field. Through every bump in my life, however big or small, music has been there for me. 

In eighth grade, for example, I struggled a lot with feeling like I fit in with my group of friends—who doesn’t have a rocky middle school experience? Fortunately, one girl, someone who became one of my best friends, introduced me to my now favorite artist (yes, it is Ms. Swift—I don’t think anyone is surprised). I’ve told her on multiple occasions that this was the greatest gift I’ve ever received, and I mean that from the deepest depths of my heart. That year, whenever I felt like I couldn’t understand my friends, I just pressed play on one of Swift’s songs, and suddenly, everything became clear. I understood what the song was saying, how the singer felt, how I was supposed to feel after listening to it. When I was younger, I mainly listened to music from movies and musicals, so listening to songs that reflected the feelings and experiences of a real person resonated so much more with me. Playing a song like “Enchanted” allowed me to heal my deep need to see into someone else’s psyche when I couldn’t ever understand what any of my friends were thinking. “All I know is I was enchanted to meet you,” Swift sings, a simple lyric that resonates deeply with listeners around the world because it captures exactly how she feels, no further explanation required. Swift doesn’t worry about mincing her words or figuring out what to say next, as I did at the time, nor does she have any of my fears of being ridiculed for what she does say—she just shares her pure emotions. 

Every time I listen to music, I escape into other worlds, stories, and feelings. Every album an artist releases is like a book in the series of their life, and each song is a chapter. I learn more about who they are, and somehow more about myself along the way. Every song is a thrilling adventure, regardless of whether you know it or not. Registering to a song multiple times also helps me hear different aspects of it that I didn’t recognize the first time around—perhaps a specific moment in its production, or a double entendre within a lyric. Other times, there’s simply a nice sense of comfort in listening to a song over and over again, much as there is in rereading or rewatching an old childhood book or movie. 

Not all songs I listen to are necessarily the deepest, nor do they all touch my soul—some are just a good mood booster! Our lives are ridden with stress and anxiety, so a fun song can be an indispensable momentary distraction. After a difficult test, when I feel that I have more work than I can handle, or when I experience any number of the various stresses placed on Stuyvesant students, slipping on my headphones or popping my earphones in, playing on an old Disney soundtrack, and revisiting an old childhood obsession is exactly what I need to boost my mood. Other times, having a dance party in my room is the key to getting in the mental state to buckle down and brave through mountains of work. Alternatively, I can play music from my “Confident Mix” on Spotify whenever I want to feel strong and ready for the day. That’s the beauty of music: there’s so much of it. Every possible genre, theme, and message exists—whatever you are looking for, you can find it.

Over the summer, I had an experience where I had to seek out music that I don’t often have to turn to: my grandfather, whom I loved dearly, passed away after a month in the hospital. Of course, my family was the best comfort I had, but my father was in Oregon with him for most of the summer, my mother was busy at work, and my brother and I were both occupied with our own lives. Listening to songs about losing loved ones made me feel more understood, and listening to the songs of my childhood comforted me at some intrinsic level. In Swift’s “Soon You’ll Get Better”, from her 2019 album Lover, she prays that her mother, who has been battling breast cancer since 2015, will soon return to her formerly healthy state. This song, usually not one I seek out, hit extremely close to home during the entire month before my grandfather’s death. I am the kind to wallow in my feelings—when I felt sad about his death, turning on this song was exactly what I needed to work through everything. Even though I very much had a support system in my parents, at some points I needed to process alone, and music was essential in those times. Although I could release my feelings and let out all that I had to say to my family, music was what truly allowed me to heal. 

Every small part of my day is motivated by music: waking up, walking to class, exercising, and every other moment, small or large, only feels possible because of the music I listen to. When I have a big test, I listen to “…Ready For It?”, the opening track of Swift’s reputation and a confident song that literally asks the listener if they are “ready for it” (answer: no). Most of my friends will see me walking around during passing periods with my old wired headphones in, to the point where my friends now associate them with me. In fact, those wired headphones are  broken now, and have been for the past three months, but I simply can’t allow myself to throw them out; throwing them out would mean not having music, even just temporarily, which seems far worse of a crime than listening to music through slightly broken speakers. 

Why should I feel bad about listening to as much music as I did this year? That music was the very reason why this year was as good as it possibly could have been! From now on, when someone asks me how many minutes I had, I will proudly tell them instead of reacting with embarrassment: I listened to 69,991 minutes of music this year, and I am happy about it because it made me happy. 

It’s not uncommon to like music. Nearly all of my friends also love music, as do most people in the world. Music is one of the longest traditions of the human race, spanning across civilizations and cultures from virtually the dawn of time. Yet, I can’t help but feel that I have a personal connection to the music I do listen to. Maybe that’s how everyone feels about their music—I wouldn’t be surprised, considering the average person spends 20.7 hours a week listening to music. 

It always feels like these artists, whom I have never met nor know, understand me more than anyone else. In Swift’s “You’re On Your Own Kid,” from her album Midnights, she details her own coming-of-age story, but the lyrics reflect the most universal of themes: “I wait patiently, he’s gonna notice me / It’s okay, we’re the best of friends… I hosted parties and starved my body / Like I’d be saved by a perfect kiss.” Throughout the entire song, she repeats the refrain, “You’re on your own, kid / You always have been,” a feeling of being alone in her journey growing up. I myself have felt this way at times, especially as an ambitious person who still craves personal closeness, like Swift. At the end of the bridge, however, she turns the negative implications of the phrase around, saying, “You’ve got no reason to be afraid / You’re on your own, kid / Yeah, you can face this / You’re on your own kid / You always have been.” Swift has always been on her own, but that is her very strength—after all of those years and challenges, she knows that she has no reason to worry about whatever comes her way. I truly value this line as someone who constantly worries that she will never achieve her dreams or become successful: maybe I don’t have a reason to be afraid either. Maybe I will be able to be just as successful as Taylor Swift someday. Maybe, just maybe, even I will be able to give to some young girl what Swift, and every other musical artist, has given to me: a place to be understood.