Finding Stillness: How Ambient Music Helped Me Through Addiction, Anxiety, and Depression
For much of my life, I struggled to find stillness. My mind was constantly racing—sometimes with thoughts I didn’t want, other times with an overwhelming sense of unease. I turned to alcohol as a way to quiet the noise, to numb the weight of anxiety and depression that felt impossible to shake. What started as a temporary escape became a cycle I couldn’t break. It wasn’t until I found my way back to music—specifically ambient music—that I began to understand healing in a new way.
The Weight of Addiction
Addiction is deceptive. It doesn’t happen all at once—it creeps in slowly, disguising itself as relief, as control. For years, I convinced myself that alcohol was helping me manage my anxiety, when in reality, it was fueling it. The more I drank, the further I drifted from myself.
Anxiety and depression have a way of isolating you, making you feel like you’re stuck in a loop that no one else can understand. The drinking only made that loop tighter. At my lowest, I realized that I was trying to escape my own mind, but I didn’t know how to exist without the distractions I had built around me.
Rediscovering Sound as Healing
Music had always been a part of my life, but during my struggles with addiction, I lost my connection to it. The urgency of traditional songwriting—the need for structure, for lyrics—felt suffocating. I needed something that allowed me to just exist, something that didn’t demand anything from me.
That’s when I truly discovered ambient music. The first time I listened to Brian Eno’s Music for Airports, I felt something shift. The absence of a defined rhythm, the way the sounds stretched out into infinity—it was exactly what I needed. There was no expectation, no pressure, just a space to breathe.
As I started creating my own ambient music, I realized how much it mirrored my own recovery process. The layers of sound, the slow evolution of a piece over time—it all reflected the patience and presence that sobriety required. Ambient music taught me that healing wasn’t about erasing the past; it was about allowing things to unfold naturally, without force.
The Power of Deep Listening
One of the most valuable things ambient music has given me is the ability to truly listen. In the past, I used alcohol to drown things out—to escape discomfort. But ambient music does the opposite. It invites you to sit with the discomfort, to observe it without judgment. It allows you to recognize that emotions, like sound waves, rise and fall—they aren’t permanent.
This shift in perspective changed everything. Instead of resisting my anxiety, I started using music as a way to move through it. I experimented with vintage synths like the Moog Matriarch and Korg PS-3100, exploring textures that felt soothing rather than overwhelming. I built looping layers of sound, letting each note breathe, much like I was learning to do in my own life.
Music as a Meditation
As I deepened my sobriety, I found that making music became a form of meditation. The repetitive nature of looping, the way a delay pedal could stretch out a sound indefinitely—these elements mirrored the stillness I had been searching for. I began to understand that healing isn’t about distraction; it’s about presence.
Meditation had always been difficult for me in the traditional sense, but ambient music became my way in. I found solace in sound, using it to center myself when my thoughts felt too heavy. Floating in an expanse of synth waves, I could detach from the need to control everything and instead just be.
Creating for Others
The more I created, the more I realized that this music wasn’t just for me. People began reaching out, telling me that they used my music for their own moments of stillness—for studying, meditating, even coping with their own struggles. That connection reminded me why I started making music in the first place.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that healing isn’t linear. Some days are harder than others, and that’s okay. But finding something—whether it’s music, movement, or meditation—that brings you back to yourself is invaluable.
For me, that’s ambient music. It’s not just sound; it’s a space, a refuge, a reminder that even in stillness, there is movement.
Moving Forward
Now, over a decade into my sobriety, I look back on my journey with gratitude. I know that I wouldn’t be here without music, without the ability to lose myself in sound and find clarity in stillness. Ambient music helped me rebuild my relationship with myself, and it continues to be my guide.
Wherever you are in your own journey, I hope you find something that gives you space to breathe, to listen, and to simply be.
Until next time, Your fellow human just being.
Six Missing
Running Toward Clarity: My Relationship with Exercise
Running Toward Clarity: My Relationship with Exercise
For a long time, I never saw myself as a runner. It seemed like something other people did—athletes, morning warriors pounding the pavement before sunrise. But as with many things in life, the path toward running wasn’t about becoming someone else; it was about discovering another side of myself. Over time, running became more than exercise—it became a form of meditation, a way to clear my head, and, in many ways, a companion to my music.
Running as Meditation
I lace up my Nike running shoes and step outside, feeling the familiar comfort of well-worn gear. There's something about the ritual of putting on the same shoes, the same lightweight jacket, that signals to my mind: it’s time to move. The first time I truly connected with running was during a difficult period of my life. I had already been exploring meditation through music, using ambient textures and looping techniques to create space for reflection. But sitting still wasn’t always enough. My mind felt restless, and I needed movement.
When I started running, I realized it was another form of meditation—one that engaged my entire body. The rhythmic pattern of footsteps, the steady inhale and exhale, the feeling of air moving through my lungs—it all became a part of the process. Just like in music, repetition created a trance-like state, a place where thoughts could pass through without overwhelming me.
Soundtracking the Stride
Music plays a huge role in my running. Some people run to high-energy beats, but I’ve always gravitated toward ambient soundscapes and evolving textures. The slow-building nature of ambient music mirrors the gradual unfolding of a long run. It keeps me present, allowing me to focus on each step instead of the miles ahead.
I started curating my own playlists for running, often including some of my own compositions. The textures of vintage synths like the Moog Matriarch and Korg PS-3100 add depth to the experience, creating a sense of movement even when I’m standing still. The resonance of a long-decaying reverb or a gently pulsing delay feels like the perfect companion to an early morning run, when the world is quiet, and everything feels open.
The Discipline of Distance
Much like making music, running requires discipline. Whether it's committing to a long-distance run or breaking in a new pair of Nike running shoes, consistency matters more than perfection. You don’t always feel like doing it, but you show up anyway. Some days, the miles feel effortless; other days, every step is a battle. But consistency matters more than perfection. That’s something I’ve learned through years of composing, tweaking, layering sounds, and trusting that the process will lead somewhere meaningful.
The same goes for mental clarity. Some days, my mind is racing, tangled with thoughts I can’t quite sort out. But running—just like ambient music—has a way of untangling things. It’s not about pushing harder; it’s about surrendering to the process, allowing thoughts to rise and fall like waves, letting the motion itself become the therapy.
Movement & Music: A Lifelong Connection
In the same way that music became a tool for healing in my life, so did running. They are both acts of creation—one through sound, the other through movement. They require patience, presence, and an openness to the journey.
I never set out to be a runner, just like I never set out to create music that others would resonate with. But sometimes, the things we don’t plan become the things that shape us the most.
Until next time, Your fellow human just being.
Six Missing