Dancing Back to Life: Music’s Role in Healing Mental Health Challenges

How favorite songs and a small music club help me to overcome depression & anxiety

“Wow, we’re kicking ass!”

My best friend N. said on the way back home from our favorite small music club in town. Celebratory, she even pumped her fist in the air. Of course, N. was right.

It was a weekday (!), long after midnight (!!), and a miracle we’d been out at all. Despite almost religiously adoring music, we are fighting anxiety and depression. Albeit for different reasons, poor mental health used to keep us isolated — until now. Slowly, sometimes with throwbacks, we were fighting our way back into social nightlife.

Depression & anxiety: When life got dark and lonely

Depression hits differently: Your physique can appear relatively intact; in the beginning, you might even “function” normally. Inside, however, you’re slowly crumbling until you don’t want to be here anymore.

After years of personal trauma and health issues, some chronic and life-altering, my cup of doom — already filled to the brim with insecurities and low self-esteem — started to spill over.

Black, sad, exhausting, pointless: That’s how I regarded my existence. Days were filled with crying constantly, thoughts about self-harm, and more „permanent“ measures to end it. Frightening. I was stewing in lethargy and couldn’t get up anymore. Oh-so-tiny moves and tasks felt unachievable and ate up all my energy.

Were my club days over?

On rare occasions when I left home, the outside world stirred up my anxieties — I couldn’t drive relaxedly in a car, handle social interaction, or cope with noise-intensive places packed with people anymore. Like supermarkets, cafés… and clubs. Which sucks — I love music.

Since my teenage years, I lived through sub-culture music: Every odd weekend, my circle of friends and I used to find a ramshackle car to drive to an even more ramshackle concert venue or music club while listening to grubby demo tapes that never should see any store.

We listened and danced to punk, ska, and oi music — metal and dark/cold wave were my guilty pleasures. We shared jokes at the bar, drank a lot, flirted with old and new crushes, shared scene gossip, entered the merch stand, and annoyed DJs with song demands. The mornings after were tough — we were hungover but fueled up with happiness only a musically aligned tribe can give.

But what now? Would my poor mental health, preventing me from going out, rob me of my love for concerts and club culture for good?

Treating depression

Fortunately, after one year of stoically ignoring I needed help, I listened to the doctors and started medication. Finally, a psychotherapist was ready to take me on as a new patient and clicked with me. After some months, I became more stable and tried to understand and work on my mental health. However, I had to accept it was a long way to go — and instead of miracles, setbacks were bound to happen.

Slowly, my appetite for life returned. In recovery, though, “over-eating” was not healthy. For instance, too much confrontation with triggers and too much socializing would be draining and take me out of the game again.

Music was one of my safe gateways back to life. First safely at home, later in the outside world.

Music immersion at home

Depression refined my music preferences. Since I didn’t feel strong and badass anymore, I got drawn to moody, dark, and melancholic sounds — like post-punk, cold wave, or dark wave. Ideally consumed in the evening’s twilight or at night. When Joy Division‘s Ian Curtis sang about suffering, longing, and sadness, I felt it deeply in my heart. On better days, I felt a deep urge to create, to pour my thoughts into poetry on digital paper.

Listen to the silence, let it ring on Eyes, dark grey lenses frightened of the sun We would have a fine time living in the night Left to blind destruction, waiting for our sight. (Transmission, Joy Division)

I’m not alone in seeking mood-congruent music. A 2019 study found that depressed people described listening to sad tunes as soothing and cathartic — it helped them to feel better. Indeed, sad music can be a safe way to access your negative emotions without getting overwhelmed. It supports overcoming the even worse feeling of being numb or overcome a state of dissociation with less anxiety.

If you want to read further about this topic, check this source.

Interestingly, when I experienced anxious (or manic) instead of depressive episodes, I had to burn nervous energy by moving, jumping, and kicking to more aggressive sounds. Mood-congruent tunes are a measure supported by my therapist, besides taking long walks in nature.

A moving body slows down and gives the mind a chance to relax as well.

Indeed, science finds dance music therapy to improve the effectiveness of depression care. According to PsychCentral, dancing solo, in groups, or in a therapeutic relationship is not only a mood and self-esteem booster — it can serve as a grounding technique, a tool to express buried emotions, or a somatic intervention to move through trauma literally.

Back to the club… slowly

Almost simultaneously, depression and anxiety had raised their evil heads. Being forced to move to a new town was only the cherry on top of the cake. When I got better, I was desperate to get involved in local music culture again: Meet people, hang out, maybe dance?

There were only a handful of music clubs to choose from, and one club in particular aligned perfectly with my taste in music. Its minimalist website promised old punk and goth stuff, and the social media guy seemed to be a fan of nerdy dad and music jokes. Fortunately, the place had loyal fans who came together to re-open again after Covid-19 was easing out.

Since every customer counts, we had to support this venue’s existence. Too many small clubs had already vanished into thin, (sub)culture-less air.

For my bestie N. and I, our individual mental health issues set different challenges. She suffers from trauma, possibly PTSD, burn-out, and is prone to getting hyper to cover things up. I had to get my depressive bum up and out without triggering anxiety by crowds, noise, and social interaction. Paradoxically, we found meeting other people draining but graved going out to a music venue at the same time. For good old time's sake?

Worst case, we could crash again. Freezing, dissociating, shutting down, falling back into our dark holes. So we promised to watch out for each other.

The first whiff of club air, again

My calendar highlighted our first date in the club: “The New Waves of UK mid-70s to early 80s” night. Spontaneity is great, but I needed to plan. Since every task, chore, and interaction drains me, I have to “save up” some energy for the “big things” — and I like the anticipation.

When the day approached, N. and I agreed to take it slow. Like two people who are going on a date but are too stubborn to admit that, we were referring to our evening out as “going for a walk with benefits.”

Our destination was a hidden gem of a club: A small outside terrace where an alternatively dressed bunch of people played cards. Beats were wafting out of the door, leading to a small bar decorated with dotted lights from a circling disco ball. Some “regulars” were spread amongst the cozy-shabby interior, pre-loved by generations of rock nerds. The DJ was already busy at the turn-tables. Good, a non-threatening atmosphere.

N. and I got drinks at the bar. Lemonade for me, beer for her. A bunch of girls was raucously laughing in a corner; the music was loud but mediocre, and my ears started to ring. The guy on the bar stool next to me took my twitching as a sign to flirt – clueless, I replied with a stupid laugh.

N. rolled her eyes and ordered two disgusting shots – a nasty Bloody Mary concoction – while I got my noise-canceling earplugs. Talking was pretty much over then, and so was our evening. Tame. Or lame?

The cute bartender handed N. a biro and two coasters at the night's end. She wrote our names on it and the date of our liberation from voluntary self-isolation at home.

Last night, a DJ saved my life

I’m glad we gave our club another try. This time, the DJ was somebody I had already checked out online, an older Oi skinhead and a bull of a man. This night should be great fun if his attire and style told me anything about this record collection.

Indeed, I felt more courageous. In the club, N. bugged me to ask the DJ for some favorite songs. Hesitatingly, I approached him and asked him to play “Spellbound” by Siouxsie and the Banshees.

Smiling, the big dude just said: “Anything else?”

Reaching for the sky, I asked the DJ, neatly clad in DMs and Harrington jacket, for a song from an old and unknown German punk band (“Knochenfabrik”), and waited for him to shrug his shoulders.

“First or second album? And which song?” he asked. I was gobsmacked.

The DJ played both. And while I was sitting at the table, drumming my fingers and singing along, he came over, grinned, and gave me a thumbs up. Aw, how sweet! N. rolled her eyes again. One of her signature moves.

We chatted for two hours — N. knew who the DJ had already fooled around with, small-town gossip at its best. Time flew while we were busy checking people out, humming along to the music, and trying some fancy cocktails from the menu. I didn’t need my earplugs this time and could handle the white noise in the background. A triumph!

The next morning, I had to pay the price for drinking on an empty stomach. Besides being hungover, I was crashing mentally. Alcohol can give depressive people a temporary high, studies say, only to let them fall even deeper some hours later. One lesson I had to learn.

The Cure meets Depeche Mode

Before I could go to our club again, I got my husband concert tickets for his birthday. The outdoor concert gave me plenty of space to move, the African singer sounded a bit like Sean Paul (just what Hubby likes), and my earplugs brought me through the evening. Another win in my book.

Soon, it was time to indulge in tunes that were my jam. I grabbed N. again for another night in “our” club. Dave Gahan and Robert Smith, Depeche Mode's and The Cure's illustrious voices alternately purred out of the speakers. Wisely, N. and I had already had dinner to brace our stomachs for the odd drink. I had to break her drinking tempo, though.

Funnily, we recognized some of the faces from the last times we’d flocked to the temple of retro music. The room started to feel like a living room full of funky relatives. You know, not creepy Uncle Joe or intrusive Aunty Jane, but the ones you find fascinating, want to hang around with and talk to about their bizarre shenanigans.

The evening was a hit. I was people-shy initially, so N. asked for some favorite songs. Soon, The Cure’s “A Forest” came up.

My feet tickled. It was the first time in years I danced in public. There, under strobe lights, 2 meters of space between the DJ throne and the bathroom, N. and I were happily shuffling around with other patrons. Nobody cared how they looked, drinks were spilled, and laughter was shared.

A table kicker game was going on in the neighboring room — a room I had not explored yet. Maybe next time?