I’m 44, and most days, I feel old, tired, like I’m stuck somewhere between holding it all together and wondering what the hell the point of it even is anymore. Music has always been part of my life, and over time, it changed as I changed. Once, it was pure fire, anger, adrenaline. Metallica blasting in my ears while I stood with my school garage band, convinced we were untouchable. That sound made me feel infinite. Then life hit, responsibilities, family, work, the heavy weight of being the guy people count on. The fire dimmed. My playlists shifted to Pink Floyd. Their sound wasn’t anger, it was thought. It matched the questions in my head. Heavy, slow, searching. Staring at the sky, wondering if there was any meaning at all, it fit. But lately, without even meaning to, I’ve gone back to Metallica. And I keep asking myself, why? At this age, when I should be craving peace, why am I reaching for chaos again?
Because music isn’t just sound. It’s a mirror.
When I crank up Metallica now, I don’t just hear riffs, I hear ghosts. I hear the 14-year-old me still screaming, refusing to be buried under years of fatigue and responsibility. I hear the garage band that thought the world was theirs. I hear freedom in every distorted note. Pink Floyd feels like lying on your back staring at the stars, trying to figure out what it all means. Metallica feels like grabbing the wheel before you crash and screaming into the storm. One makes me think. The other makes me move. And I realize I need both. But here’s the thing, Metallica doesn’t sound the same at 44 as it did at 14. Back then, it was rebellion for rebellion’s sake. Now it’s therapy. Every riff pulls out the things I don’t say, the burnout, the depression, the frustration, the exhaustion of being the guy who always has to have the answers. It’s not noise anymore. It’s medicine.
This isn’t only nostalgia. This is survival.
Because deep down, my soul refuses to just grow quiet and fade into routine. Metallica wakes up the fighter in me, the one who still wants to kick down walls, scream at the sky, and live. And maybe that’s the meaning I’ve been searching for. Not to choose calm over chaos. Not to bury one version of me for the other. Maybe that’s what 44 really is. Not settling into one self, but to carry them both, the kid with the guitar, and the man with the scars.
