This past Saturday,

after watching my kid light up the field at their softball game—

I was driving home,

my mind buzzing with the echoes of their cheers

and my own silent thoughts.

And then—

a song.

Not one I picked.

Not one I knew.

But it picked me.

“Carry Me Through,”

by Maren Morris.

The opening notes—

her voice hitting like a revelation,

soft yet powerful,

waking something inside me

that had been quiet for far too long.

So I turned it up.

Once.

Twice.

On loop.

That song became the hum of my drive,

the steady pulse behind my racing heart,

a reminder that even in the ordinary,

you can stumble into something sacred.

Then came that line.

“Haven’t heard a hallelujah… but I ain’t been listenin’”

 That line—

it wrapped around me like a truth I’d been too busy to face.

Not that the hallelujahs were missing,

but that life had been too loud, too chaotic,

drowning out the soft, sacred notes hidden in everyday moments.

And let me tell you—

hallelujahs?

They don’t just echo from church steeples or whispered prayers.

They’re found in the unexpected.

In a kid’s gleaming smile after a game-winning catch.

In the quiet moments between the noise.

In the hugs, the laughter,

the silent texts that say, “I see you.”

And music—

music has always been my therapy.

My release.

My translator.

There are days I can’t find the words to explain how I feel,

can’t even name the storm inside me—

and then a song comes on that says it for me.

Better than I ever could.

And suddenly, I’m not so alone in it.

I’ve been on this long, winding road of healing—

unpacking the weight of old hurts,

rewriting the narratives that held me back.

Some days, I’m a blazing fire.

Other days, just flickering embers.

But in that moment, with Maren Morris on repeat,

I felt seen.

It wasn’t a grand rescue—

no dramatic fix-all.

It was a quiet companion sitting with me,

reminding me:

“It’s okay to lean on this, to be carried through the noise.”

So now, I listen—

or at least I’m trying to listen—

not just to the song,

but to the whispers of life itself.

To the hallelujahs hidden in everyday victories,

in the small, significant moments that remind us we’re alive.

If you’re out there,

feeling the weight of the day,

wondering where the soft hallelujahs are,

I hope a song finds you as it did me.

And if not a song,

maybe a piece of art that speaks to you.

A book that wraps around your soul,

a poem that calms the storm inside.

Whatever it is that brings you peace—

your soft hallelujah.

Just listen…

it will find you.

You’re still here.

You’re still worthy.

And you’re gonna make it through.