Why Jazz Started to Resonate After Experiencing Depression

It wasn't that my "tastes changed"

After experiencing depression, jazz started to resonate with me in a strange way.
Of course, it wasn't that I disliked jazz. If anything, I had been interested in it for a long time, and I knew the masterpieces by Keith Jarrett and Bill Evans were "good." But there was always a sense that I was "stretching to listen to it." It was a way of listening where I pretended to understand, trying to align myself with the music. It felt less like liking it and more like listening to something I was supposed to like.

That is different now.
When I start listening, before my understanding can catch up, my body reacts first. A temperature that is hard to explain rises—something that feels like a quiet ache deep in my chest, or perhaps a sense of relief. It’s not that jazz resonates because it is "good"; rather, I find myself "resonating" with it on my own. There is something decisively different here from before.

I don't want to dismiss this sense of discomfort by simply saying my "tastes changed."
Because that change isn't like swapping out a preference for a music genre; it comes with the feeling that something at the very root—the side of me that is listening—has changed.

Generally, when people say their tastes have changed, it is often discussed as a story about the "external object" changing.
I used to like rock, but recently I’ve come to like jazz. Or, when I was young I wanted excitement, but now I like calmer sounds. That kind of explanation is easy to understand, and perhaps it is half true.

However, I don't feel that is the kind of change happening here.
What changed is more than "what I listen to"; it ishow it sounds, andwhat I react to. In other words, the music hasn't changed; the terrain of my sensitivity has.

When you experience depression, the way you see the world changes.
Colors fade, time feels heavier, words drift further away. I hear those things often. But at the same time, in the process of gradually recovering from depression, a change in the opposite direction also occurs.
Things I used to pass by without a second thought become impossible to ignore. Things I used to swallow as "normal" start to grate on my nerves. For example, excessive brightness, forced positivity, the compulsion to be energetic. Or, an atmosphere that measures people by results, efficiency, or correctness. Such things can suddenly start to feel "noisy."

This is not because my emotions have become dull; if anything, it is the opposite, perhaps meaning thatmy emotional sensors have started working in a different way.
In other words, the "resolution" of my sensitivity has changed. Things that only reacted to strong stimuli before now react to subtle tremors. My ears stop at the process that doesn't reach a conclusion rather than the flashy conclusion itself. I am drawn more to the unspoken margins than to clear messages.

And jazz is built precisely upon those margins.
Time that drifts while the melody remains incomplete. Chords that do not resolve. Pauses that are close to silence. Performances that include even the tremors of sound and the irregularity of breath. Jazz doesn't try to guide you by saying, "I want you to feel this way."It allows you to linger before reaching an answer rather than providing one. There are moments when a body in the process of recovery aligns with that with surprising naturalness.

Therefore, in this essay, I would like to capture this phenomenon not as a "change in musical preference," but as aphase shift in sensitivity.
A phase shift is a change where, even though you are looking at the same thing, the way it is received changes entirely. Even though the outside world hasn't changed much, the internal circuits have been rewired, causing the same sounds to take on different meanings. The event of jazz resonating with me likely belongs to that kind of change.

It is still too early to summarize this with the word "maturity," and it might be a bit reckless to declare it a "sign of recovery."
However, one thing is certain.Resonating—the fact that this sensation has returned.
It is proof that my emotions have begun to flow again, and at the same time, it is a harbinger that the contours of how I will live from here on out are changing.

From here on, I will break down why jazz sounds that way a little more.
"What did depression strip away, and what did it leave behind?"
"What is the time that jazz allows for?"
And why do the sounds of Keith Jarrett and Bill Evans reach me as "time that is ringing without forcing itself."
In the end, I think this is a story about music, but at the same time, it is a story aboutthe sensitivity required for a person to survive.

Chapter 1 | Depression doesn't dull emotions, it "strips away the noise"

When people talk about depression, it is often described with the image that emotions become dull or that you stop feeling anything. It is true that in the acute phase, both joy and sadness flatten out, and there is a time when the world feels distant. However, what is happening at least in the process of recovery is not a simple "decay of emotions." If anything, it is closer to a change whereyou stop feeling unnecessary things.

The unnecessary things I am talking about here are not personal emotions.
They are a kind ofprerequisite for emotion that we have been imprinted with by society over a long period of time.

The atmosphere that you must compete.
The value system that producing results efficiently is good.
The tension that you must stand on the side of correctness.
And above all, the implicit compulsion that you must be "bright," "positive," and "energetic."

When you look at these one by one, they don't look like blatant violence. In fact, they often function as common sense or good intentions to keep society running smoothly. However, they are constantly flowing into our nervous systems as faint noise. Before we know it, they make our heartbeats a little faster, our breathing shallower, and maintain a tension that says, "I must be doing things properly."

I think that what happens during the onset and recovery process of depression is an event where thissocial noise is turned off at the nervous system level.
It wasn't turned off by my own will. It is more accurate to say that my body shut it down first, at the point where it would break if it let any more noise through.

As a result, what happens?
Stimuli from the world temporarily decrease. Things that bothered me before stop bothering me, and conversely, things that didn't enter my consciousness before start to stand out strangely.

For example, in terms of music, easy-to-understand climaxes or melodies that try to grab your emotions directly can start to feel somewhat noisy.
My body cannot keep up with sounds where the intention of "I want you to be moved here" or "I want you to feel better here" is transparent.

On the other hand, elements that had previously receded into the background began to emerge into the foreground.
The space between sounds.
The subtle sway of the rhythm.
The ambiguity that never reaches a clear conclusion.
Time that remains unorganized, not rushing toward completion or resolution.

The center of reaction shifts from
big melodies to small nuances. This is not because emotions have weakened. Rather, it is the result of the circuits through which emotions pass being rewired toward a more delicate state.

Jazz is music that fits perfectly into those circuits.
Jazz basically does not lead emotions in a single direction. It rarely gives instructions like 'cry here' or 'get excited here.' Chords often do not resolve, phrases bend mid-way, and rhythms keep swaying. Even silence is left as part of the music.

Ultimately, jazz does not present 'completed emotions.'
Instead, it offers up the state just before an emotion is generated exactly as it is. The listener has no choice but to layer their own breathing and heartbeat onto it. Therefore, the listener's own state is vividly reflected. If you are forcing yourself, you feel restless; if you are tense, you feel uncomfortable.

A body that has gone through depression has already rejected the pressure to 'move forward,' 'become cheerful,' or 'return to normal' once before. For that body, the unresolved nature and margins of jazz are not a burden, but rather felt as a form of rest.
You don't have to become anything. You don't have to reach a conclusion. You can just be in that time. Jazz provides that kind of time as sound.

That is why jazz rises up.
It is not a story about finding a new hobby. I think it is a sound that began to ring naturally on the ground of quiet sensitivity that remained after the social noise had peeled away.

In the next chapter, I would like to delve a little deeper into the structure of why jazz supports people even though it is neither 'positive' nor 'salvation'.

Chapter 2 | Jazz is neither 'positive' nor 'salvation'

Music often has a pre-prepared 'emotional path'.
The intro starts, it gradually builds up, releases in the chorus, and lands brightly at the end. Or, while emphasizing sadness, there is always a word of salvation or a key change prepared somewhere, telling you, 'This pain has meaning,' or 'Therefore, it will be okay.'

Of course, that is not a bad thing.
People need easy-to-understand support when they are struggling, and there are moments when we are saved by music 'taking our mood along with it.' The power that much rock and pop music possesses lies there. Music acts as a proxy for our emotions. It screams what cannot be put into words, pushes our backs, and makes us move forward.

However, what happens after experiencing depression is that sometimes that 'proxy' feels heavy.
Nothing has been decided inside us yet, but we are urged from the outside to 'feel this way.' Even though our hearts cannot keep up, we are dragged toward a conclusion. In that moment, music can sound not like kindness, but like a certain kind of pressure.

The experience of depression is often accompanied by the 'compulsion to be positive'.
Cheer up. Don't think too much. If you go outside, things will change. It will surely get better. While there are times when being told these things is a relief, there are also times when the more you are told, the more you feel suffocated. This is because being positive feels like 'correctness' or a 'duty to recover'.

In that respect, jazz is a bit different.

Jazz is neither 'positive' nor 'salvation'.
At the very least, much of jazz does not try to lead the listener to a fixed conclusion. It rarely has a plot that says, 'cry here, stand up here, and head toward the light at the end.' Rather, every time a plot seems about to emerge, it shifts it, makes it ambiguous, and leaves it hanging.

To list the characteristic elements of jazz, for example:

Unresolved chords. Instead of landing comfortably in a cadence, it proceeds while maintaining dissonance and tension. The listener keeps feeling, 'Where is this going?' But that 'uncertainty of destination' itself becomes part of the music.

Phrases that continue while lost. The melody does not head straight for the goal. It breaks mid-way, rephrases, or hesitates. As if it were the monologue of someone thinking while speaking, the sounds contain hesitation.

Notes that are off. Intentionally off. Rather than wrapping things up beautifully, it leaves a snag. Some notes are so unexpected that you think, 'Why play that there?' But that unexpectedness does not lie.

Rhythms that include silence. There is silence within the beat. It doesn't pack everything in. It places. It waits. It is in the moments when no sound is ringing that the meaning of the next sound seeps through. Silence is not a lack, but functions as breathing.

What do these characteristics mean?
It means that what jazz provides is not an 'answer,' but the time just before the answer.

At the end of the day, jazz is not 'music that solves problems'.
It is music that keeps breathing even while carrying problems.
It does not declare completion or overcoming, yet it does not stop either. It continues 'here and now' while containing contradictions, pain, and ambiguity.

That is why jazz sometimes does not look like salvation.
In fact, it can sound cold, distant, and even dismissive. However, that sense of distance can be a relief for a body that has experienced depression.

A body that has experienced depression already knows.
It knows how much words like 'find an answer,' 'move forward,' and 'go back to how you were' can corner a person.
And it also knows that even the good intentions of others can sometimes impose a framework of 'correct recovery'.

That is precisely why the unresolved nature of jazz is effective.
Jazz does not tell you to 'get well'.
It does not tell you to 'be saved'.
It simply offers time that continues in its ambiguity. Moreover, this is not irresponsible neglect, but a 'persistence' supported by the performer's high level of concentration and sincerity.

Let us consider one thing here.
Perhaps people truly feel relief not when they are told 'there is hope,' but whenthey are allowed to remain as they are, unable to hold hopeBeing told not to have your hopeless nights denied can be a deeper salvation than being told to have hope.

Jazz possesses that form of salvation.
It does not save, but it does not rush you.
It does not encourage, but it does not drive you.
It does not provide a conclusion, but stays with you in the place before the conclusion.

That is likely why a body that has experienced depression finds relief in this structure.
When 'time where you don't have to find an answer' is permitted, the nervous system finally relaxes. Breathing becomes deeper. Heart rate settles. Things that cannot be put into words find a place to exist just as they are, in a form before they become words.

And strangely enough, as that kind of time increases, paradoxically, the 'power to live' returns.
Not the power to try to be positive, butthe power to continue even while carrying a self that cannot be positivereturns.

The fact that jazz resonates might be a signal that this power has begun to recover.

In the next chapter, I would like to carefully put into words why that jazz time is felt even more strongly through the sounds of specific performers—such as Miles, Bill Evans, and Coltrane—and what is meant by the phrase 'music of people who did not break'.

Chapter 3 | Jazz as the Music of 'People Who Did Not Break'

After experiencing depression, the way you hear music changes.
Among those changes, I think the most significant is the change in sensitivity toward 'stories of recovery'.

The world is full of stories that talk about recovery and overcoming.
I was depressed but I recovered. I faced setbacks but I overcame them. So you will be fine too. Such words certainly help people. But at the same time, they can sometimes impose a 'correct answer for recovery.' Even though recovery is not a single path, stories that make it look like a single path are strongly circulated in society.

A body that has experienced depression already knows.
It knows that the phrase 'overcoming' can be a blade while also being a salvation.
When days of not being able to overcome continue, it creates a 'self that hasn't done it yet' or a 'self that is lagging behind.' Then, recovery becomes a task rather than a relief. It becomes homework. It becomes something to be evaluated.

That is precisely why sounds that do not declare 'I have recovered' or 'I have overcome' resonate.
There are such sounds in jazz. They do not talk about overcoming. They do not talk about completion. They do not directly present hope. But they do not exaggerate despair either. They just continue, remaining ambiguous and unresolved. There, a body that has gone through depression can finally catch its breath.

In this chapter, I would like to dare to call such jazz the music of 'people who did not break'.
Here, 'did not break' does not mean strong, tough, or without wounds. It is the opposite; it meansnot pretending to be brokenwhile carrying wounds and chips. In other words, not acting energetic. Not waving the flag of recovery. Not turning oneself into a beautiful story.

As representatives of this, I would like to name three people.
Miles Davis, Bill Evans, and John Coltrane.
Each in a different way, but in common, they are sounding their breath rather than sounding 'energy'.

Miles Davis | Sounding Distance and Silence

There is distance in Miles's sound.
He does not come close in a friendly way. He does not impose emotions on you. Rather, there is even a coldness as if he is watching you from a slightly distant place. However, that coldness is not rejection.It feels like a kindness that does not get too close.

There is an 'incompleteness' in Miles's phrases.
The silence that remains slightly after he plays. The time when no sound is ringing speaks more than the sound itself. If one of the essences of jazz lies in the 'space,' I think Miles is one of the people who handled that space most deeply.

This sense of distance is important for a body that has experienced depression.
When you are struggling, excessive empathy or encouragement can sometimes become a burden. The more people say, "I understand" or "Cheer up," the less room you have to escape. Miles doesn't approach you like that. He simply maintains a distance, using sounds that include silence to signal, "I am here."

In other words, what Miles is playing is not comfort.
It is non-intrusive companionship.It is close to that feeling when someone sits next to you and stays there without saying a word.

Bill Evans | Maintaining a fragility that feels like it might break

Bill Evans is "fragile" in a different sense.
He doesn't push with force. He doesn't provide strong outlines. The notes don't protrude toward you. Rather, he maintains a precarious balance with a thinness that feels like it would shatter if touched.

And that balance creates a strange sense of relief.
This is because Bill's sound does not presuppose "well-adjusted vitality." Even if you are tired or weak, you can receive it with your sensitivity just as it is. It doesn't elevate your emotions; it gently touches the bottom of them. There is a message there that says, "It's okay not to be bright."

The beauty of Bill's performance is often a "beauty that does not resolve."
It doesn't end neatly. It doesn't conclude cleanly. Within the lingering notes, emotions remain drifting in an unfinished state. For someone who has experienced depression, this is deeply realistic. Life does not always end with problems solved. Rather, we live while carrying things that remain unresolved. Bill affirms that posture of "carrying it with you" through his sound.

What Bill is playing is not a declaration of hope.
It is the fact that fragility survives.It is the fact that something fragile exists there without breaking. That very way of existing makes me feel that it is, in itself, a form of strength.

John Coltrane | Continuing to play an unfinished quest

Coltrane resonates in a different direction.
His sound has a pressure like a prayer. But it is not a "certainty of salvation," but rather closer toa movement seeking salvation.It is not the sound of someone who has reached a completed answer. It is the sound of someone who, while unable to reach it, continues to search anyway.

In Coltrane's performance, a "question" is etched.
There is anguish, impatience, and intensity. But these are not mere passions; they are supported by the ethics of inquiry. He doesn't scream because he is in pain; he continues to search for the direction of meaning while still carrying that pain.

I think this is important.
When you experience depression, your sense of "meaning," "value," and "purpose" can temporarily collapse. The questions of what you live for or what you want to do can become hollow. If you fill that void with easy answers, the wounds can sometimes widen instead.

Coltrane's sound does not fill the void.
He plays while carrying the void.
And he continues to play regardless.
That posture sounds "sincere" to a body that has gone through depression. The self that holds no answers is not denied.

What Coltrane is playing is not salvation, but inquiry.
And inquiry does not finish. But the fact that something unfinished continues to exist becomes proof of life itself.

What these three have in common is that they do not declare recovery or overcoming.
They don't say, "I'm fine." They don't say, "I've recovered." They don't say, "I've moved past it." They don't turn it into a success story. Yet, they do not become an interruption of despair either. In other words, they do not fall completely silent into nothingness.

What they are playing, in the end, is not "vitality," but
the fact that "there is still breath here."

The breath I speak of here is not a bright breath, nor a strong one.
It is a breath that seems like it might break, thin, sometimes irregular, yet still continuing.
For someone who has experienced depression, this is more realistic and more reliable than anything else.

That is why it resonates.
A sound that does not demand vitality forgives the self that is not vital.
A sound that does not rush recovery gives a place to the self that is in the middle of recovering.
And within that place, breathing gradually returns.

In the next chapter, I want to take what I have discussed so far as "the performer's sound" and bring it one step closer to my own experience. Jazz that I used to listen to while stretching myself now permeates my body. What has changed in this transformation? I would like to put into words the contrast between "the jazz of my stretching days" and "the jazz of now."

Chapter 4 | The Jazz I Listened to While Stretching / The Jazz of Now

Even though I am listening to the same jazz, I am surprised at how much the way I hear it has changed.
The songs haven't changed. The performances haven't become something else. What changed is me. My ears, my body, and my "premise for encountering music" have been rearranged before I knew it.

That is why in this chapter, I would like to intentionally place two different times side by side:
the jazz I listened to when I was trying to act older than I was and the jazz of now.
This is not a discussion of which is better or worse. It is not about judging an embarrassing past. Rather, it is precisely because of that pretense that the music resonates the way it does now. In that sense, this is a record of one continuous transformation.

Jazz of the Past | Music as "Cultivation"

To my past self, jazz was, in some way, "cultivation."
I felt that the fact that I was listening to jazz made me look a little bit superior. Or perhaps, the desire to appear superior was part of my motivation for listening.

For example, it was a feeling like this.

• I am mature because I can listen to jazz

• I am cultured because I understand jazz

• I am a connoisseur because I can say this is good

Before "liking" it, I wanted a "sense of understanding."
I feel like I was trying to grasp the context behind the sound—the history, the classic albums, the critical reception, the chord progressions, the styles—before the sound itself. Of course, learning these things is enriching and brings intellectual joy. However, my past self sometimes used that knowledge for the sake of "reassurance."

In other words, rather than experiencing music, I was trying to grasp it.
I tried to understand it because I felt uneasy remaining in a state of not knowing. By standing on the side of those who "know," I tried to fill the discomfort I felt in the presence of the sound. Perhaps I was actually afraid of the freedom and ambiguity of jazz.

Back then, while listening to music, I was searching for a "correct answer" somewhere.
Is this the good part? Is this a masterpiece performance? Is the timing of the beats correct? What is the meaning of that missed note? Such thoughts were thinly layered over the experience of listening.

That is why, even though I liked jazz, it didn't resonate.
To be precise, before it could sink in, my head would stand up first.

Jazz of Now | Music that "The Body Receives on Its Own"

The jazz of now enters through a completely different gateway.
Understanding is not first. Knowledge is not first. The body reacts first.

A piano piece I happen to play at night suddenly touches the depths of my heart.
A single chord brushes against a place of inexpressible emotion.
The swaying of the tempo and the hesitant pauses overlap directly with my own breathing.

What is happening here is not interpretation, but resonance.
Before I can explain, "This is a song like this," the music informs me, "This is the state I am in right now." Jazz acts like a mirror. Through the music on the outside, the presence of the inside emerges.

What is significant here is that I can receive it without trying to understand.
Before, I was afraid of not knowing. I felt I couldn't enjoy it if I didn't understand. But now, it is fine to remain in a state of not knowing. In fact, it is precisely where I don't understand that my body feels at ease. My own incompleteness finds a place to belong in sounds that are ambiguous, unfinished, and unresolved.

I think this is less about a change in "how to listen to music" and more about how the tension of living unravels.
After going through depression, the strength to try hard to understand eventually runs out. It runs dry. Then, you become unable to "conquer" music. But in return, a realm opens up where you can touch it without needing to conquer it.

There, music is not an object, but an environment.
It becomes something that touches your skin, like the air in a room.

The feeling of "touching" rather than "listening"

If I were to sum up this difference in one phrase, it might be this.

I used to listen to jazz.
Now, I feel jazz.

To 'listen' feels like something entering from the outside in.
You receive it with your ears, process it with your mind, and then your heart is moved. There is a sequence. There is a distance.

But 'feeling' is different.
The moment you touch it, your own side has already changed. What touches your skin is already inside. There is no time for interpretation in the sense of touch. A reaction happens first.

The way jazz sinks in is close to this tactile quality.
For example, Bill Evans' piano touches you quietly, as if there were no 'forbidden places' deep inside you. Keith Jarrett's pauses and groans pass by as if stroking the 'unsettled self' just as it is.

And I don't mind being touched in that way.
Rather, there is a feeling of finally being touched.
I realize that all this time, I had been hardening myself before I could be touched.

When I was trying to act older than I was, I treated jazz as 'adult music'.
Now, I receive jazz as 'human sound'.
Not as a symbol of culture, but as breath. Not as proof of skill, but as a tremor.

Ultimately, this change is not so much about a deeper understanding of jazz, but closer tono longer denying my own fragility.
That is why it sinks in. It just sinks in.

In the next chapter, I would like to write more concretely about why this 'touching sound' occurs so strongly, especially in Keith Jarrett's performances. His sound has a purity that lets unsettledness remain unsettled. I want to put into words what kind of permission that purity gives to a body in the midst of recovery.

Chapter 5 | Why Keith Jarrett Sinks In

──Sound that allows you to exist in an unsettled state

Keith Jarrett sinks in.
This 'sinking in' is not the kind of word that means it's good or moving. It's closer to a bodily reaction, something more immediate. While listening, somewhere deep in my chest feels warm. Or, my throat tightens. Before the sound can persuade my mind, my heartbeat begins to unravel first.

When thinking about the reason, what comes to mind first is the 'unsettledness' in Keith's performance.

Jazz has improvisation. Improvisation has tremors. Of course, that can be said of jazz in general.
But Keith's 'unsettledness' is different from mere improvisational freedom. There is something more raw mixed in. Collapsing. Pausing. Groaning. Breath becoming ragged. At times, it even sounds as if the performance itself is being pulled by his physical condition or emotions.

Usually, we seek 'order' in music.
At the very least, we unconsciously wish for professional performances to be orderly. We want them to be stable. We want them to maintain a certain beauty. Otherwise, we feel anxious. Because the listener cannot feel at ease.

However, Keith dares to let go of that comfort.
No, rather than letting go,he even incorporates the state of being unable to let go into the sound itself. And surprisingly, the music doesn't break even then. Rather, because of that precariousness, it reaches our hearts.

Collapsing, pausing, groaning—there is a 'person' before the 'performance'

Keith's famous characteristics, such as his groaning during performances and his physical movements, are often discussed.
One could see them as habits, and there are pros and cons. But for a body that has gone through depression, it doesn't sound like a mere habit.

It sounds like a sign that there is a 'person' before the 'performance'.
Before presenting an orderly musical work, there is a raw existence sounding right here, right now. Sometimes I feel Keith's sound is saying this to me.

I think this is the decisive point.
We seek to be 'as usual' especially when we are not feeling well. We are ashamed of ourselves for not being able to speak as usual. We blame ourselves for not being able to work as usual. We think of ourselves as failures for not being able to smile as usual. And so, we try to hide our unsettled state.

Part of the pain of depression comes precisely from this 'compulsion to be normal'.
Even when you're not feeling well, you have to act like you're okay. Even when you haven't recovered, you have to pretend you have. Even when you have no energy, you have to perform the shape of being energetic.

Keith does not perform that act.
In fact, he turns the state of not performing into sound. This is what resonates.

Sounds that directly express the body of that day and the emotions of that moment.

Keith's improvisation feels less like freedom without a plan, and more likethe state of his body in that moment becoming the composition.
The tempo wavers because it wavers. There are pauses because they happen. Hesitation appears because there is hesitation. Here, the reality of 'this is how it is right now' is expressed more strongly than any performance of 'this is how I want you to hear it'.

That can be cruel to the listener.
Because unrefined sounds evoke our own lack of refinement. When you are weak, perfect music can sometimes be comforting. But conversely, that perfection can also sting with the pain of 'I am not perfect'.

Keith's sound lacks that perfection.
No, while technically overwhelming, he does not impose a 'composed' state in a spiritual sense. Therefore, he does not blame our own state of collapse. He creates a place where a broken self can simply sit.

And that place is not just sweet comfort.
Keith doesn't just say 'you don't have to try so hard'; he confronts you with the fact that 'even on days when you can't try, you still exist.' There is a soft, yet extremely strong affirmation in that.

The message that 'you don't have to go back to how you were' and 'it's okay to be as you are today'

During the recovery phase of depression, the phrase 'going back to normal' often appears.
Going back to your old life. Going back to your old self. Going back to your old pace.
Sometimes that is necessary as a goal. But at the same time, 'going back to normal' often becomes a curse. Because you lose track of where your original self is. Because you start to think of yourself as a failure for not being able to return.

Here, Keith's sound points in a different direction.
'You don't have to go back.'
'It's okay to be as you are today.'

This message is simple in words, but very profound for the body.
A body that has experienced depression has been rushed many times. Get better soon. Get back to work soon. Be positive soon. Even the good intentions of those around you sometimes contain this pressure. And so, the body loses its own rhythm.

Keith's performance lacks that 'rushed feeling'.
Rather, if he rushes, he collapses. If he collapses, he stops. If he stops, he starts again. There is a rhythm there that resembles the reality of recovery. It is not about getting better in a straight line, but returning while swaying. Sometimes not returning, sometimes veering off. That path of recovery is right there in the sound.

That is why listening to it creates a strange sense of relief.
'I am not the only one who is behind.'
'It's okay to sway.'
'If I collapse, I can just start again.'
That kind of permission is offered not as a sermon, but as sound.

A deep affirmation for a body that has been rushed to recover

I think the way Keith resonates is not through encouragement.
Encouragement can sometimes become a command to 'stand up'.
What Keith provides is not a command, buta place to be.

A place where an unrefined self can exist without being refined.
A place where an unrecovered self does not have to prove recovery.
A place where a self that cannot return to the past is not asked to do so.

And that place is not just standing still.
The sound moves there. It moves while hesitating. It moves while collapsing. In other words, life continues. Keith does not say 'it will be okay.' But he sounds out 'it is continuing.' How deep an affirmation this is for a body in the midst of recovery.

Ultimately, the reason Keith resonates is that he does not play the 'sound of a composed person'.
He allows himself to sound unrefined, and yet makes it work as music. That fact tells our bodies this:

Even if you are not composed, it is okay to be alive.
It is okay to keep sounding just as you are today.

In the next chapter, I want to write about how this 'it's okay to be as you are today' resonates within the stillness of Bill Evans. If Keith affirms 'collapse,' Bill affirms 'fragile delicacy.' I will carefully delve into what kind of shadows that difference creates within the same 'resonance'.

Chapter 6 | Why Bill Evans Resonates

──A sound that is here, even if it isn't understood

The feeling that Bill Evans resonates is of a slightly different quality than Keith Jarrett.
If Keith is someone who brings his "body of the day" to the forefront just as it is, Bill seems more like someone who plays while holding his body and emotions of the day without pushing them out instead.

That is why Bill's piano doesn't so much shake you as it does quietly soak into your depths.
There is no flashy empathy. There is no dramatic salvation. Yet, as you listen, places you weren't aware of begin to loosen. The unspoken "fatigue" inside you is forgiven, just a little.

I think the reason for this lies in a certain posture that Bill's sound possesses.
In a word, it is the posture of being here, even if not understood.

Not pushing out emotions──"Holding" rather than "wanting to convey"

Much music pushes out emotions.
Here is sadness, here is anger, here is hope. Melodies, chords, and lyrics make the contours of those emotions clear. The listener just has to go along with them. That is why it is easy to understand and easy to empathize with.

Bill almost never pushes things out in that way.
His performance does not explain emotions. He does not present emotions in a "form that can be understood." Rather, he maintains the subtle tremors of emotion just as they are, before they become words, or just before they would break if put into words.

This is where it resonates.
When you experience depression, emotions often become "things that cannot be explained." It is not quite sadness. It is not quite anger. It is not quite emptiness. It is just heavy. Or it is hollow. You cannot distill such a state into easy-to-understand words or stories.

Bill's piano does not deny that "inability to be distilled."
He does not push out emotions, he does not thicken their contours, yet he still makes them stand as a performance. In other words, it is permitted to be ambiguous. This permission is profound for a body in the midst of recovery.

Not wrapping things up brightly──The sincerity of not decorating "hope"

Bill's sound is beautiful.
But that beauty is often not a "bright beauty." It is not tragic, but it is not optimistic either. Even though the sound is soft, it does not reach a conclusion. It does not modulate toward the light and say, "See, it's okay."

Usually, we are accustomed to "wrapping things up brightly."
We make the end of a story positive. Even if we are depressed, we end with hope. Even if it is a sad story, we end it by saying, "I learned something." If we don't, those around us become anxious. We become anxious ourselves.

However, after experiencing depression, that "wrapping up" sometimes sounds fake.
There are emotions that spill out the moment you wrap things up brightly.
There is a reality that cannot be wrapped up brightly.
There are days when you cannot wrap things up.

Bill does not wrap things up.
He proceeds carefully without wrapping them up.
And that way of proceeding reaches us as a quiet sincerity.

I think this is close to ethics.
Rather than "speaking of hope," it is not faking the moments when you cannot speak of hope.
Bill's sound has that kind of ethics. That is why, even though he does not offer easy comfort, he comforts deeply.

Ending without resolving──Placing an aftertaste instead of a cadence

A feeling of not resolving remains in Bill's performance.
The chords do not land cleanly. The phrases do not finish definitively. After it ends, something remains. And that is not the discomfort of "not feeling refreshed," but rather closer to the liberation of "it's okay not to finish definitively."

This structure of "ending without resolving" is poignant for those who have gone through depression.
Much of life does not end with problems being solved. Relationships, the past, and wounds continue without being sorted out. Yet society always demands a solution. It says, reach a conclusion, sort it out, move forward.

Bill does not do that.
He does not force a resolution. He does not rush to a cadence.
Therefore, the unresolved nature of our own lives is not blamed within the sound.

Ultimately, Bill does not present a "finished product."
Instead, he creates a space where the unfinished can breathe as it is.
That space resonates.

"Even if I'm not understood, I am here"—a point of quiet self-affirmation

When you experience depression, the desire to be "understood" often fluctuates wildly.
You want to be understood, yet you don't want to be. You don't have the energy to explain. You feel like you might break the moment you put it into words. Amidst such contradictory desires, it becomes easy to isolate yourself.

And after a long time, you may arrive at a certain point.
It is not a resignation that you don't need to be understood at all.
Nor is it a severance where you don't interact with anyone.

It is a quieter point.

Even if I'm not understood, it's okay for me to be here.
Even if I can't explain it, it's okay for me to be here.
Even if I don't look energetic, it's okay for me to be here.

This self-affirmation is not loud. In fact, it is small.
However, when this small affirmation sprouts, one finally begins to plant their feet on the ground of recovery. This is because recovery does not begin with "proving oneself to others," but with "not driving oneself forward."

Bill Evans' sound resonates with this point.
He does not demand, "Understand me."
He does not demand, "Be moved by me."
He is simply, calmly, delicately, yet surely, there.

It is similar to the texture of sitting next to someone and spending time together without saying a word.
You can be in the same place without understanding each other through words. Silence is not awkward. There is a relationship even within the silence. Bill's piano sounds like he has turned that kind of silent relationship into sound.

That is why it resonates.
A sound that doesn't tell you to cheer up affirms nights when you can't.
A sound that doesn't speak of easy hope doesn't deny the self that cannot speak of hope.
A sound that ends without resolving gives a place to a life that doesn't resolve.

What Bill is playing is not words of comfort, but permission to exist.
Even if I'm not understood, I am here.
That fact becomes a deep relief for the body that has gone through depression.

In the next chapter, I want to write about the meaning of the fact that I can still listen to rock. If jazz is "time spent within," rock is also a "force directed outward." The change in the body that has become able to hold both—that is not a regression, but perhaps another form of recovery.

Chapter 7 | The meaning of the fact that I can still listen to rock

When I talk about how jazz has started to resonate with me, a small misunderstanding sometimes seems to arise within me.
"Does that mean you've graduated from rock?"
"Do you no longer need intense things?"
"Have you mellowed out?"
Things like that.

But what I want to value here is not pitting rock and jazz against each other.
It's not that rock has become shallow because jazz has become deep. It's not that jazz is for adults and rock is for children. Assigning maturity and childishness to music in the first place is somewhat stifling.

What is more important isthe fact that I can still listen to rockitself.
And I think that has a meaning beyond just "my preferences remain."

The difference between rock and jazz is not one of value, but of "direction"

Rock is music that faces outward.
It releases impulses outside the body. It increases speed. It uses anger as fuel. It asserts. It pushes through. It breaks through. The goodness of rock lies in that linearity. Even if you are lost, you can step on the accelerator while being lost. Even if you are falling apart, you can scream while falling apart. By screaming, you can regain your own contours.

On the other hand, jazz is music that stays within.
It is close to breathing. Close to the pauses. Close to the margins. It does not assert. It does not conclude. Rather, it allows you to stay there while holding onto unresolved emotions. The goodness of jazz lies in that lingering. It does not rush, it does not drive you, and it can maintain time while remaining unfinished.

Neither is superior or inferior.
It is just that the "direction" is different.
Rock is outward-facing momentum, and jazz is inward-facing endurance. Both can be necessary forces for living.

Using the body selectively—the freedom I have now

The change happening here is probably not about "song selection," but rather that my body has become able to use music selectively in different ways. Even though it seems like the same person listening to music in the same way, the state of the body listening to music is actually different every day. There are days when I am tired, and days when anger has built up. There are nights when I want to sink into quiet depression, and mornings when I need the strength to go outside.

Rock music becomes a run-up to going outside.
When my body is stiff, the speed of rock moves my muscles. The momentum of the sound carries the frustration I cannot put into words. Sometimes, rock reminds me of the "self that can move."

Jazz becomes a time when I don't have to move.
I don't have to provide answers, explain anything, or get things in order; I can just be there while breathing. Sometimes, jazz allows for the "self that is standing still."

Being able to go back and forth between these two is actually very significant.
This is because part of the pain of depression is "fixation." You become unable to go outside, you become trapped within, or conversely, you feel forced to remain outward-facing. Either way, the room for choice diminishes.

Now, I can listen to rock, and jazz resonates with me.
That doesn't mean my heart has split in two. Rather, it means a single body has become able to allow for multiple rhythms. This is close to recovery. Recovery is not about "becoming bright," but also about becoming able to choose.

In the past, I lived by being pulled along by music

I remember the feeling of when I used to listen to rock.
Of course, it was fun, and I was saved by it. But at the same time, there was a feeling somewhere that I was being "pulled along." If there is no music, I cannot move. If there is no music, I cannot look forward. If there is no music, I cannot maintain the shape of my emotions. That is why I cling to music. Borrowing the momentum of music, I somehow run through my daily life.

That was, in its own way, a method for living.
To survive, I used music as fuel. The acceleration and explosion of rock were necessary engines for me at the time.

However, after going through depression, that engine stops once. It is forced to stop.
What remains after it stops might be the fear that "I cannot live without something to pull me along." Or it might be the rejection of "I don't want to live by being pulled along anymore."

And somewhere in the recovery process, a different feeling can sprout.

Now, I can live without being pulled along

When I feel that jazz resonates with me now, there is a sense of relief in "not having to be pulled along."
Jazz does not drag me outside. It does not force me to get excited. It does not spur me on. That is precisely why I can regain my own pace.

And strangely enough, as that sense of relief increases, I become able to listen to rock again as well.
I become able to listen to rock not because I "need to," but because I "can choose to."
Anger and speed are no longer things that destroy me, but things I can treat as part of myself.

In the end, in the past, I lived by being pulled along by music.
Now, I can live without being pulled along.
On top of that, I can be pulled along when necessary, or I can stay quiet without being pulled along.

This is not a story about my spirit becoming stronger.
Rather, I think it is a story about the freedom to live while still containing weakness having increased. Rock as a force heading outward, jazz as a time to stay within—each has a place within me. I don't have to exclude either. I don't have to lean toward one or the other.

And I think the fact that I have become a body that can hold both is itself a form of recovery.

Next, as the final chapter, I would like to conclude by returning this entire piece once more to the word "resonate." I can say many logical things, but in the end, "resonating" is proof of being alive. I intend to quietly affirm that fact and end here.

Final Chapter | The word "resonate" is already the answer

When I think about it, the word "resonate" is mysterious.
It is neither analytical nor explanatory. It is not even an evaluation. It simply points to the fact that something happened deep within the body. It does not go so far as to say it was happy, sad, or that I was saved. Even so, it is a reaction that I know for certain "happened".

And what is important is that this reaction comes before logic.

It is not that I listen to jazz and it resonates because I understand, 'It resonates because it has this structure.'
The words only catch up after it has already resonated.
The depths of my chest loosen. My breathing deepens. The flow of time slows down just a little. Such physical changes happen before any explanation.

I think this order is very important.
Because when people experience depression, they often get tired of 'understanding.'
Why did this happen? How can I get better? Is there any meaning? What is the reason?
While continuing to answer such questions, only the head moves forward, ahead of the heart.

The sensation of 'resonating' goes the opposite way.
It does not ask for meaning. It does not demand a reason.
It is just the body letting me know, 'I can accept this.'

Looking back at the past, I feel my relationship with music was a little different.

Past: I used music to survive.
When I couldn't find energy, I used music to pull myself up.
On mornings when I couldn't move, I borrowed the momentum of music.
I entrusted my anger and loneliness to the sound to get through them.

That was, in its own way, an earnest and serious way of living.
Music was fuel, a brace, and sometimes a crutch.
There were certainly moments when I couldn't stand without music.

But now, it is a little different.

Now: I am listening to music while living.
I am not reaching for music to survive;
music flows in as an extension of the breath of living.

Music does not pull me.
Music gently touches the place where I am standing.
This difference is small when put into words, but for the body, it is decisive.

Therefore, the reason jazz resonates is not because I am broken.
It is not because my emotions have become weak, nor because I have become too sensitive.

It is because I have returned to a heartbeat that does not push itself.

A heartbeat that does not try to run fast.
A heartbeat that does not try to match the 'correct' answer.
A heartbeat that does not perform a version of being energetic.

The sway, the pauses, and the unresolved nature of jazz naturally overlap with that rhythm.
I don't have to try to match it; it just matches.
That is why it resonates.

And I feel this sensation is not temporary.
It is not a passing trend or a change in mood.
I think it is something deeper, something that will become the foundation for how I live and express myself from now on.

This sensation is recovery.
It does not mean the symptoms have disappeared.
Rather, it is recovery in the sense that I have become able to live with what did not disappear, what could not be erased.

At the same time, this is also maturity.
It is not about becoming stronger or smarter.
It is the maturity of being able to embrace weakness and ambiguity without excluding them.

And I think this sensation of 'resonating' will become the

fundamental tone for when I write words, choose things, or interact with people from now on.

It is not a flashy main melody.
But it is a low sound that is always playing.
If that goes out of tune, the whole thing becomes unsettled.
If it is in tune, even if things go slightly off, I can return to it somewhere.

I don't have to force an explanation.
I don't need anyone to understand.
I don't have to use it as proof that I'm cured, and I don't have to use it as material for being positive.

Just playing jazz at night,
and having a moment where I can feel, "Ah, this really resonates."

I think that alone is enough.
Because that is alreadyproof that a person is alive.

If a day comes in the future where the way I hear music changes again, that's fine.
It's okay to have days when rock takes the lead, or nights when I can only listen to silence.
Each of those is the truth of my body on that day.

The word "resonate" is already the answer.
There is no need to rush to reach a conclusion any further than this.