In Defense of the One-Track Obsession
(Or: why I listened to “The Tide” a hundred times and didn’t regret a single one.)
here’s a certain kind of magic in putting one song on a loop and refusing to come up for air. Not a playlist. Not a mood board. Just one track, pulsing again and again, until it starts to feel like part of your bloodstream. For those of us with neurodivergent brains—or just tender, exhausted hearts—this isn’t indulgence. It’s survival.
I didn’t mean to get stuck on “The Tide” by Leigh Nash (with Sixpence None the Richer). But once I started, I couldn’t stop. It became my anchor and my atmosphere—looping softly through my headphones during long walks where I needed to disappear a little. I lost count of how many times I played it. It was probably equal parts stimming and grounding, if that’s even possible. A moment of comfort I could press repeat on. A quiet lifeline when nothing else felt steady.
I even painted it—my synesthetic brain translating the song into color and shape—because that was the only way I knew how to hold it fully.
There’s something sacred about a song that lets you sit inside it like that. No rush to move on. No pressure to feel different. Just a soft repetition that lets you be in the moment exactly as you are.
Sometimes I feel like the world pushes us to move on too fast. Even with music, we’re trained to shuffle, to skip, to constantly chase the next thing. But what if staying still with one song is the most honest thing we can do?
For me, looping a song isn’t about fixation—it’s about regulation. It’s auditory stimming. It’s rhythm as reassurance. It’s someone else’s voice saying the thing my own couldn’t, over and over again, until I finally start to believe it.
Maybe it looks like obsession. But sometimes, looping one song is the only thing that makes the world stop spinning long enough for you to breathe. Call it a ritual. A spell. A form of emotional echolocation.
Whatever it is—don’t let anyone shame you for needing to hear it one more time.
