When a Song Says the Quiet Parts Out Loud

December 2, 2025

Music has always had a way of slipping past my defenses, the ones I like to think are reinforced and locked down tight. A few songs have gotten through that barrier lately, but one in particular keeps finding its way in: “Back of the Line” by Justin Trawick & The Common Good.

I first started writing this back in July, during a rough stretch in the hospital. It sat quietly in my journal because, at the time, it felt too heavy to share. A few days ago, that same song came up on my playlist, and it pulled me back to those pages. I reread them and realized there was something buried in that original draft, something I wasn’t ready to say then, but needed to bring into the light now.

Justin isn’t just some artist I stumbled onto; he’s someone we actually know, someone whose music has quietly woven itself into the background fabric of the Cooper family history.

Gabriel and I met Justin right before COVID, at a TR3 concert. The world still felt normal then, crowded venues, live music, laughter and happiness without hesitation. Then the pandemic arrived, and in a time when everything felt distant and fragile, Justin kept playing. He performed socially distanced outdoor shows, streamed concerts from his living rooms and backyards, and helped people feel connected when connection felt impossible.

We listened through all of it.

We held onto those songs.

Somewhere along the way, they became a thread between then and now.

Now, as I move through my own season of uncertainty, diagnosis shifts, treatment choices, soreness, fear, and determination, one particular song of his has come back with a force I didn’t expect.

“Back of the Line” hits differently today.

Deeper.

Sharper.

More honest than I’m sometimes willing to be out loud.

These are the lines that have been saying the quiet parts for me.

“This could be all just a dream…”

There are days, especially after long appointments or heavy results, when I still hope I’ll wake up and find all of this behind me.

Not because I’m unrealistic, but because even the strongest people hope for a reset sometimes.

I don’t say that out loud very often.

It feels too vulnerable, too raw.

But this line holds the truth I keep tucked behind steadiness.

I miss the version of my life where this wasn’t happening.

“I have never been more afraid to lose / the people I know, the things we used to do.”

This lyric is the bullseye.

Fear of loss shows up in quiet ways, never dramatic, never loud. It’s the heaviness that settles in during the pauses between medical updates. It’s the ache that hits during normal family moments, not because they’re sad, but because they’re beautiful.

I want to protect the people I love.

I want them to feel hope from me.

I want them to feel steadiness.

So I hold back the parts of me that feel fear, the fear of losing time, routines, normalcy, the simple things we take for granted until life shifts underneath us.

This line says it plainly.

It names the thing I rarely name.

“Leaning into wind that’s blowing me… back of the line again.”

This feels like the emotional description of cancer treatment.

You push forward.

You follow every step.

You stay committed.

You stay strong and still, some days, the wind shoves you backward.

Scan results.

New symptoms.

Treatment delays.

Revised diagnoses.

Unexpected pain.

I don’t like talking about the setbacks.

Not because I’m hiding them, but because I don’t want to give them more power than they already have.

Some days, no matter how hard you lean forward, the wind wins.

“Dreams from an ordinary day have never been as vivid as today.”

This line feels like someone cracked open my chest and wrote down what’s inside.

Illness reframes everything.

Suddenly, the simplest dreams, the ones you never thought twice about, become the ones you hold closest:

A normal day.

A walk outside without soreness, or being out of breath.

A day without appointments.

A quiet moment with my boys.

A meal that feels like a meal, not a milestone.

Ordinary becomes vivid.

Vivid becomes sacred.

It’s not the kind of longing you speak out loud, because it feels too small, but it isn’t small at all.

“I wanna reach out my arms and simply touch someone… Or I’d just settle for their face.”

Illness makes your own body sometimes feel like a negotiation.

Ports.

Catheters.

Soreness.

Precautions.

Hospital smells still lingering on your skin.

Touch used to be simple.

Instinctive.

Automatic.

Now, sometimes, it’s something you reach for mentally before physically, because touching hurts, or feels awkward, or reminds you of what’s happening in ways you wish it didn’t.

This lyric catches that ache perfectly.

The desire for closeness, even when your body gets in the way.

“Running backwards, fading fast…”

There are days when this line sits in the back of my mind.

I don’t show that part very often.

Most people see the version of me who’s pushing forward, tracking next steps, managing information, staying engaged.

That part is real.

But so is the part that feels overwhelmed.

Tired.

Afraid of slipping backward.

Afraid of things I don’t want my family to worry about.

Strength isn’t the absence of fear.

It’s the decision to move anyway.

This line captures the weight I try not to let others feel.

“I want to tell you the truth…”

Here’s the line that feels like the heart of everything.

There are truths I hold back.

Not because they’re too dark, but because they feel like a burden I don’t want to hand to the people I love.

I want them to feel steadiness from me, even on the days I don’t fully feel it myself.

I want them to believe in hope.

I want them to see me moving forward.

But this lyric reminds me:

Truth is allowed to be fragile.

Truth is allowed to be tender.

Truth doesn’t take away strength.

Sometimes the truth is simply:

I’m scared.

I’m hopeful.

I’m trying and I’m holding all of it at the same time.

Why This Song Matters Now

What Justin wrote during COVID, a time of fear, uncertainty, isolation, and suspended normalcy, has taken on an entirely different meaning for me now. It echoes parts of my experience I rarely speak out loud.

Some songs don’t just sound good, they tell you who you are when you’re too tired to say it yourself.

I am grateful for Justin and this song. I am also happy for him, his wife, and their brand new baby! Fatherhood is amazing and I can't wait to hear how it influences Justin’s songwriting.

If you aren’t doing it, go support your local musicians.