Screw Therapy, Make a Mess: How Art and Music Are Lowkey Saving Our Sanity
Let’s clarify: you don’t need another TikTok therapist telling you to “just breathe.” You’ve been breathing. That’s the problem — you’re still here, still spiraling, still dragging your nervous system around like a trash bag through every goddamn Monday.
You don’t need yoga. You need something louder than your thoughts.
You need a guitar solo that makes your spine vibrate.
You need to scream into a canvas until the silence screams back.
Google searches for
"art therapy" and "music
for anxiety" have been steadily climbing since 2020, and TikTok is basically a 24/7 group art journal with soundtracks
"art therapy" and "music
for anxiety" have been steadily climbing since 2020, and TikTok is basically a 24/7 group art journal with soundtracks
And honestly?
That might be the most relevant coping mechanism of our time. Creative chaos is having a moment.
Gen Z isn’t just crying into voids — they’re curating them, mixing them, animating them. In a world that keeps glitching, the new self-care isn’t quiet — it’s expressive, messy, loud as hell, and designed in Canva. Healing is getting weirder, and that’s probably a good thing.
Anxiety isn’t aesthetic. It’s not cute. It’s relentless, exhausting, and way too good at sneaking into everything.
And for some of us, the only way out is through a song we’ve played 73 times this week, a drawing that looks like a crime scene in crayon, or a note on your phone at 3AM, typed with shaky hands between skipped songs and unfinished thoughts.
I’m not here to glamorize suffering. I’m just saying: if it’s gonna be here, at least let it scream in color.
Art and Music: The Only Legal Drugs That Actually Work
Here’s what they don’t put in therapy brochures:
Sometimes, talking makes it worse.
Sometimes, words fail.
But a bassline never does.
Music doesn’t gaslight you.
It doesn’t ask for context.
It just hits play and tells your inner demons, “Come outside, bitch.”
When your brain’s a haunted house and your chest is the crime scene, the right track can be an exorcism. Doesn’t matter if it’s Phoebe Bridgers or Rage Against the Machine — if it hits, it heals.
Science agrees. fMRI studies show music lights up the brain lighting up the brain all at once — memory, emotion, reward — the whole system firing in sync. It boosts dopamine, lowers cortisol, and makes your amygdala chill the hell out.
A 2019 meta-analysis in JAMA Network Open found that music therapy significantly reduces symptoms of anxiety and depression. No gatekeeping, no prescription.
Art’s the same deal. A study from Drexel University showed that 45 minutes of making art dropped cortisol levels significantly — even in people who swore they had zero creative talent.
It’s not about being good. It’s about getting it out.
Anxiety Is a Liar. Art Doesn’t Lie.
Anxiety tells you you're not enough. That you’re too much. That everyone hates your dumb little outfit and your dumb little thoughts.
(It’s wrong. Also, your outfit’s great.)
Art doesn’t lie.
Art doesn’t try to fix you.
It just holds up a mirror and says, “This is you. You’re still here. Cool.”
Psychologists call it emotional externalization. Taking all the mess in your head and turning it into something you can look at, hear, or hold. It stops being a fog and starts being something with shape. Something you can breathe around.
And maybe even laugh at. Or rage at. Or turn into a weird little zine.
Music and Art Don’t Just Save You — They Keep You Moving
For me, art and music have never been hobbies. They’ve been CPR. They didn’t just drag me out of the dark. They reminded me why I keep crawling forward.
And that’s not just some deep-sounding Instagram caption. There’s science to back it:
Psych researchers call it aesthetic experience — that gut-level, chills-down-your-spine reaction to art or music that activates emotional regulation centers in the brain. One study in Frontiers in Psychology even showed how these moments help us process trauma.
Every great song carries the fingerprints of someone who survived something. And when it resonates, it’s like your pain found a twin.
It’s never just about the song. It’s about who made it. Why they had to. What they couldn’t say in words.
Between the lyrics and the silence, you find yourself. Sometimes you're validated. Sometimes you're cracked open. Both are necessary.
But I’m Not an Artist
Cool. Neither are most people on Spotify. Doesn’t stop them.
You don’t have to be “good”. You just have to be honest.
Your healing song might be a garage-band loop you made on your phone. Your masterpiece might be a chaotic mess of color no one else understands.
If it pulls the poison out? It counts.
Screw perfection. Screw performative aesthetics. The stuff that saves you won’t be pretty. It’ll be real, raw, and yours.
You don’t need a canvas. You need a reason.
And maybe — just maybe — that reason is a sound you haven’t made yet. A story you haven’t drawn. A version of you waiting to be screamed into existence.
Make it loud.
And for some of us, the only way out is through a song we’ve played 73 times this week, a drawing that looks like a crime scene in crayon, or a note on your phone at 3AM, typed with shaky hands between skipped songs and unfinished thoughts.
I’m not here to glamorize suffering. I’m just saying: if it’s gonna be here, at least let it scream in color.
Art and Music: The Only Legal Drugs That Actually Work
Here’s what they don’t put in therapy brochures:
Sometimes, talking makes it worse.
Sometimes, words fail.
But a bassline never does.
Music doesn’t gaslight you.
It doesn’t ask for context.
It just hits play and tells your inner demons, “Come outside, bitch.”
When your brain’s a haunted house and your chest is the crime scene, the right track can be an exorcism. Doesn’t matter if it’s Phoebe Bridgers or Rage Against the Machine — if it hits, it heals.
Science agrees. fMRI studies show music lights up the brain lighting up the brain all at once — memory, emotion, reward — the whole system firing in sync. It boosts dopamine, lowers cortisol, and makes your amygdala chill the hell out.
A 2019 meta-analysis in JAMA Network Open found that music therapy significantly reduces symptoms of anxiety and depression. No gatekeeping, no prescription.
Art’s the same deal. A study from Drexel University showed that 45 minutes of making art dropped cortisol levels significantly — even in people who swore they had zero creative talent.
It’s not about being good. It’s about getting it out.
Anxiety Is a Liar. Art Doesn’t Lie.
Anxiety tells you you're not enough. That you’re too much. That everyone hates your dumb little outfit and your dumb little thoughts.
(It’s wrong. Also, your outfit’s great.)
Art doesn’t lie.
Art doesn’t try to fix you.
It just holds up a mirror and says, “This is you. You’re still here. Cool.”
Psychologists call it emotional externalization. Taking all the mess in your head and turning it into something you can look at, hear, or hold. It stops being a fog and starts being something with shape. Something you can breathe around.
And maybe even laugh at. Or rage at. Or turn into a weird little zine.
Music and Art Don’t Just Save You — They Keep You Moving
For me, art and music have never been hobbies. They’ve been CPR. They didn’t just drag me out of the dark. They reminded me why I keep crawling forward.
And that’s not just some deep-sounding Instagram caption. There’s science to back it:
Psych researchers call it aesthetic experience — that gut-level, chills-down-your-spine reaction to art or music that activates emotional regulation centers in the brain. One study in Frontiers in Psychology even showed how these moments help us process trauma.
Every great song carries the fingerprints of someone who survived something. And when it resonates, it’s like your pain found a twin.
It’s never just about the song. It’s about who made it. Why they had to. What they couldn’t say in words.
Between the lyrics and the silence, you find yourself. Sometimes you're validated. Sometimes you're cracked open. Both are necessary.
But I’m Not an Artist
Cool. Neither are most people on Spotify. Doesn’t stop them.
You don’t have to be “good”. You just have to be honest.
Your healing song might be a garage-band loop you made on your phone. Your masterpiece might be a chaotic mess of color no one else understands.
If it pulls the poison out? It counts.
Screw perfection. Screw performative aesthetics. The stuff that saves you won’t be pretty. It’ll be real, raw, and yours.
You don’t need a canvas. You need a reason.
And maybe — just maybe — that reason is a sound you haven’t made yet. A story you haven’t drawn. A version of you waiting to be screamed into existence.
Make it loud.
