By Karleigh K. Mattison
The volume goes up before the thoughts can finish forming.
It’s almost automatic. Headphones in. A song already queued. The first few seconds are enough to shift something—attention redirected, silence replaced, whatever was building just moments ago softened at the edges.
For a lot of people, music isn’t just something they enjoy. It’s something they reach for.
Between classes. On late-night drives. Walking across campus with nowhere urgent to be but still not wanting to be alone with their own mind. Music fills the space before anything else can.
And increasingly, that space feels harder to sit in.
For many young adults, especially college students navigating constant pressure—academics, relationships, uncertainty about the future—music has become more than background noise. It’s a way to manage emotion. Or, more honestly, to avoid it.
“I don’t even think about it anymore,” one student said. “If I start feeling overwhelmed, I just put something on. It helps me not spiral.”
Another described it as less of a choice and more of a reflex.
“It’s like muscle memory,” they said. “I don’t sit there and decide to play music—I just do it. Especially if I can feel myself getting anxious.”
That instinct isn’t unusual. In fact, it’s deeply human.
Music has long been tied to emotional regulation—helping people calm down, focus, or shift their mood. It can slow a racing mind, anchor someone in the present, or offer a sense of familiarity when everything else feels uncertain. But the line between regulation and avoidance can blur quickly. When every quiet moment is filled, there’s less opportunity to actually process what’s underneath.
Silence, for some, feels like an open door.
And not always one they want to walk through.
Another student described always needing “some kind of noise,” whether it was music, a podcast, or even just background sound while doing homework.
“If it’s quiet, my thoughts get loud,” they said. “Music just keeps everything… manageable.”
That word—manageable—comes up often. Not better. Not resolved. Just easier to hold at a distance.
And in many ways, that’s what music does best. It creates space without requiring confrontation. It gives emotion a soundtrack without demanding explanation. It lets people exist alongside what they’re feeling instead of directly inside it.
You don’t have to name it if there’s already a song doing it for you.
Some students mentioned building entire playlists for specific moods—stress, sadness, even numbness. Not necessarily to work through those feelings, but to sit in something adjacent to them. Something controlled.
“It’s weird,” one person said. “Sometimes I don’t even want to feel better. I just want something that matches how I already feel, but in a way that doesn’t overwhelm me.”
That distinction matters.
Because this isn’t always about escaping emotion completely—it’s about regulating how close you get to it.
But that kind of distance, while comforting, raises a quieter question: what happens when we never turn it off?
There’s a difference between using music as a tool and relying on it as a shield. One helps you move through something. The other helps you move around it.
And yet, it’s not as simple as calling it unhealthy.
In a world that rarely slows down, where people are expected to be constantly productive, constantly connected, constantly okay—music can feel like one of the only accessible forms of relief. It’s immediate. Personal. Always available.
It doesn’t ask questions. It doesn’t push back. It doesn’t require you to explain yourself or even fully understand what you’re feeling.
It just plays.
There’s something deeply comforting about that—especially for people who don’t always have the time, space, or language to unpack everything they’re carrying.
For some, music becomes a buffer between themselves and everything they’re not ready to face. Not because they’re unwilling—but because timing matters. Because not every emotion can be unpacked in the middle of a busy day, or in between responsibilities that don’t pause just because you need a moment.
So instead, the volume goes up.
The feeling gets quieter.
And for a while, that’s enough.
Still, there’s a subtle trade-off in constantly choosing sound over silence. When music fills every gap—every walk, every drive, every moment alone—it can start to replace reflection instead of just delaying it. Emotions don’t disappear; they just wait. They sit underneath the noise, patient in a way that can feel almost unsettling once you notice it.
And eventually, they ask to be heard.
Not all at once. Not dramatically. But in small ways—restlessness, distraction, the sense that something unresolved is still there, just out of reach.
But maybe that’s not a failure of how people use music.
Maybe it’s a reflection of how much they’re carrying in the first place.
Because the truth is, most people aren’t trying to avoid themselves entirely. They’re not running from who they are. They’re just trying to get through the day without being overwhelmed by everything they haven’t had time to process yet.
Music helps with that.
It turns overwhelm into background noise. It gives shape to feelings that don’t quite have words yet. It offers control in moments that feel unpredictable.
It fills the silence—not permanently, but just long enough.
And sometimes, that’s not avoidance.
Sometimes, it’s survival.
The volume goes up again.
Not to erase what’s there—but to soften it. To hold it at a distance. To make it something you can live with, at least for now.
Until you’re ready to turn it back down.
Spring 2026 
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