How a Vinyl Record Taught Me the Freedom of Not Arriving

I was listening to records yesterday when it hit me: one of the reasons I don’t listen to vinyl as often as I love to is because playing a record is an event for me. It’s a mood. A space. A specific energetic frequency. Vinyl isn’t how I “just listen” to music — it’s how I enter music.

It forces me to slow down, breathe, and be present. Music has always been something I’ve instinctively reached for when I needed it, the same way your body suddenly craves a particular food because it’s asking for very specific nutrients.

But sitting on the floor with a stack of vinyl, I realized something about myself I didn’t even know until that moment. And while I could write about the symbolism of records and time, what really held me was the peace I felt when the thought rose:

“We’re never meant to arrive.”

How does listening to vinyl lead to that?
Because in the quiet, I watched myself in real time. I discovered why I wait for particular moments to listen to music. Why I crave softer tones and melodic, emotional frequencies instead of upbeat, lyrical ones. I want what my energetic, emotional self needs — and that need shifts.

This was a new revelation—a new layer of me. A stranger-self showing up with wisdom I didn’t know I was ready for.

It reminded me of the journey to the center of the maze (for my Westworld people): that path inward is never-ending. Even in my forties, here I am unlocking yet another aspect of who I am.

“Oh, what a relief it is,” I whispered to myself, feeling something uncoil inside me.
To not have to arrive.
To finally get what people mean when they say “Life is about the journey.”

Because the journey is to your Self — your inner, higher Self, the knowledge of self is the only real key to understanding anything, and it often takes lifetimes to unfold.

Knowing we’re not meant to “arrive” makes room for compassion. For grace. For flow. For accepting that being human means we will be unfinished and imperfect — beautifully so.

Just the other day, a friend asked if I was judging him.
I said, “Possibly.”
He looked confused and asked, “Why?”

And I told him plainly,
“Because I’m human and flawed. And that’s literally what we come here for, we didn’t come here to arrive. We came here to unfold — to be imperfect.

To take the journey.