It was the kind of moment you don’t expect to find meaning in. I was standing in line at the grocery store, a basket full of produce and the hum of fluorescent lights overhead. Somewhere between the beeping registers and the muffled conversations of other shoppers, the familiar opening chords of “Night Changes” began to play over the speakers. I froze, the canned soup and baby carrots in my hands forgotten, as the first few words brought a wave of memories crashing over me.
It’s been years since I’d heard that song—really heard it. Not the snippets on TikTok or in passing, but the full, aching melody that once meant everything. And just like that, I was eleven again.
The first time I heard it, I was in my bedroom, headphones on, the world shut out. It was a dark winter evening, the kind that felt endless, where the cold seeped into your bones and the night wrapped itself around you like a heavy blanket. I remember lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling, the glow of fairy lights casting soft shadows on the walls. The song filled the space, its lyrics speaking directly to the swirling storm of emotions inside me. At eleven, the world felt so big and uncertain, every decision a question mark, every possibility tinged with both excitement and fear.
“Does it ever drive you crazy, just how fast the night changes?” Harry’s voice felt like a friend in that moment, someone who understood the strange mix of wanting everything to change and fearing it all at once. I had so many dreams then—some too big to say out loud, others so fragile I could barely think then. And there was heartbreak, too, the kind that felt like it would last forever, even though I knew better.
Standing in that grocery store, years later, I couldn’t help but wonder what my eleven-year-old self would think if she could see me now. Would she be proud? Surprised? Disappointed? Back then, I wanted so badly to escape the smallness of my world, to become someone bigger, braver, more certain. Now, with a basket of groceries and a life that still felt like it was in progress, I wished I could tell her that the uncertainty never really goes away—but that’s okay. That’s part of the magic.
I’d tell her that change is slower than you think, and yet, when you look back, it feels like it happened all at once. That the dreams she held so tightly have evolved, some fading, some growing, and some transforming into things she couldn’t have imagined. I’d remind her to savor those small moments—the ones she thought were insignificant—because they’re the ones that stay with you.
As the final notes of the song played, I blinked and found myself back in the present. The line had moved, and the cashier was waiting for me to step forward. I mumbled an apology, placed my items on the belt, and tried to shake off the lingering ache in my chest. But the song stayed with me, its melody threading itself through my thoughts like a familiar scent.
Time is a strange thing. It’s relentless and unyielding, but every now and then, something like a song can pull you out of it, connecting who you were to who you are. It wasn’t just a song to me anymore; it was a time capsule, a reminder of where I’ve been and how far I’ve come. And as I stepped out into the cold evening air, I found myself humming along, carrying both the weight and the wonder of those memories with me.