2025 has been a chapter in my story that I’m ready to close. I’ve dealt with nonstop health issues since January, and in my darkest moments I’ve wondered if this is just how life will be from now on. Thankfully, I’ve been able to keep working because I mostly work from home—I truly don’t know how I could’ve held a “regular” job this year. There were other setbacks, too—but honestly, none of those even matter. The saying is true: if you’re sick, you only have one problem.
Before this, I never imagined what life in constant pain would feel like. And I still don’t know how I got through it other than prayer—and music. Music heals the soul even when the body is falling apart. It kept me hanging on when I felt like I was running out of hope.
This year I found new music that grabbed me by the collar—Dermot Kennedy, the Red Clay Strays—and I completely fell for both. I revisited Ozzy Osbourne’s entire catalog after he passed away in July. I blasted everything Ozzy and Black Sabbath with the windows open all summer and into fall. I’m sure my neighbors were grateful when colder weather rolled in and they didn’t have to hear “Fairies Wear Boots” or “Sweet Leaf” anymore. I even surprised myself by getting into Justin Bieber’s new double album and going deep into Yungblud’s Idols.
I watched dozens of Ozzy concerts on YouTube—everything from 1980 all the way through the later tours when he reunited with Sabbath. And most recently, I binged every Stephen Wilson Jr. track I could find.
What an unbelievable talent Stephen is; I haven’t heard a single song I don’t like—not one. “Father’s Son,” “Grief is Only Love,” and “Hang in There” all make me weep. Even his ’90s covers of Nirvana and Smashing Pumpkins are unreal. I don’t know how to describe his genre other than “Gruntry”—a blend of 90s grunge and old-school country. He’s got the storytelling chops of Willie Nelson and Johnny Cash, with the emotional pull of Dave Matthews (my favorite songwriter… well, until possibly Stephen now). I never thought I’d say Dave isn’t my number one, but damn—Stephen is something else.
Gentle and unassuming as a person, Stephen’s music is anything but ordinary. There’s nothing artificial about it. It’s soul-level music—impossible to copy, impossible to fake. His songs make you feel so much you think your heart might burst. I love it.
And that’s the thing about music: it transports you. For a little while, it lifts you out of your life and drops you somewhere else. Not every song you hear does that—but many of the artists I clung to this year did.
One of my favorite Stephen Wilson Jr. songs lately—fittingly—is “I’m A Song.” It’s about how music becomes a living, breathing companion, woven through your memories and milestones. It comforts you through heartbreak, grief, illness, and loss. It’s tucked into moments of joy—first love, first adventure, first everything. It grows up with you and soundtracks the version of yourself you’re becoming. It’s the echo of your emotions, your experiences, your life.
So, while I’ve had Black Sabbath’s Master of Reality and Paranoid albums looping on YouTube Music—and while I’ve watched Live in Paris from 1970 at least twenty times—I’ve had Stephen Wilson Jr.’s Son of Dad on repeat for days.
Because through the music, I feel something other than pain.
I feel free.
Even when my body feels broken, the music reminds me I’m still here—
still changing, still learning, still becoming.
Songs are my companions, carrying me through life.
Until next year,
Blessings, Stacey