Sometimes I think country music understands me better than I understand myself. It’s weird, right? You turn on the radio, and before your brain even wakes up enough to form a thought, someone’s twanging about heartbreak or fried chicken or Friday nights under string lights — and suddenly, your whole heart goes, yep, that’s me.
Country music doesn’t sugarcoat life. It doesn’t try to be perfect or polished. It’s muddy boots, late bills, too many emotions, and that one person you swore you were over but definitely aren’t. And somehow, that honesty makes you feel… lighter. Like you don’t have to fix every little thing before you can like yourself again.
I remember sitting on the porch one night after a long, awful day — the kind where everything breaks, including your mood. Curtis was out in the barn pretending he didn’t hear me slamming cabinets, and I just hit play on an old Merle Haggard record. There’s something about his voice — it’s like he’s sitting right there beside you, telling you that it’s okay to be tired, that you’re still good even when you’re mad, messy, or kind of lost.
Country music teaches you that your story doesn’t need to look like anybody else’s. You can love yourself even if your hair’s in a ponytail that’s seen better days, your jeans have dust on the knees, and you still haven’t figured out what you’re supposed to be doing with your life. It’s real-life self-love — the kind that doesn’t involve mantras or green juice, just a truck radio and a moment to breathe.
Sometimes I’ll hear an old Willie Nelson line and it hits me right in the gut. It’s like he’s giving you permission to be human — to cry, to laugh, to want better but still be thankful for what you have. That’s self-love in its simplest form, right there in a guitar riff and a few words from a man who’s seen it all.
So yeah, maybe I don’t have all the answers. Maybe I’m just figuring things out one song at a time. But every time Luke Combs sings about heartbreak or Thomas Rhett reminds me to be thankful, I find a little more grace for myself.
And if loving yourself sometimes just looks like rolling the windows down and belting out “Beautiful Crazy” like it’s your own life story — well, I’d say that’s a pretty good start.