Making Up for Lost Songs

When I realized I’d be spending the weekend driving from home to Tampa to Orlando and back with Kailyn — two nights, two concerts, two bands that mean something to both of us — it meant everything.

Since I got sober, I’ve been fighting this quiet battle of making up for lost time. Not just the big years I lost to drinking, but the small moments — the ones I was there for physically, but not really there for emotionally. Sobriety has shown me that being present is not just about showing up; it’s about feeling the moment as it’s happening.

Now, every minute with her feels like a second chance. Every song, every laugh, every lyric is part of a rewrite — a chance to replace the static I used to live in with something loud and clear.

There were definitely years when a weekend like this wouldn’t have been possible. Logistically, emotionally, physically — all of it. Sure, the trip might have still happened back then. But it would’ve revolved around alcohol: where I could drink, how much I could hide, how to keep it together just long enough to make it through the night. The version of me that existed back then couldn’t have truly handled this kind of weekend — not because I didn’t love her, but because I wasn’t capable of showing it.

Tampa — “The Night I Heard Her Sing” (Twenty One Pilots)

Before the concert, we had some time in Tampa to kill — and that used to be dangerous territory for me. “Killing time” once meant finding the nearest bar, or stretching a lunch into a blur. But this time, it meant exploring.

We stopped for lunch at a Triple D spot I’d seen years ago on Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives. No rush, no schedule — just good food, real conversation, and shared laughs.

After lunch, we found Eureka Gardens — a place that, years ago, I would’ve driven right past because it wasn’t on my “to-do” list. Back then, I only did things that checked boxes — not things that simply filled moments.

We wandered through the gardens without a plan. We didn’t need one.

The air was warm, the paths were quiet, and for once, I wasn’t thinking about what came next.

That slow afternoon — the kind I used to avoid — ended up being one of my favorite parts of the weekend. Sobriety has made me love these little in-between chapters. The unscripted, unplanned, unrushed moments where time doesn’t need to be filled — just lived.

By the time we got to the arena that night, we were both fully there. No tension. No fog. Just two people ready to get lost in a band that knows what it means to wrestle with darkness and still find light.

When the lights dropped and the crowd roared, I turned to see Kailyn absolutely beaming. She sang every lyric like it mattered — because it did.

For the first time, I didn’t just hear the music through my ears. I felt it through hers.

The lyrics weren’t just coming from the band — they were coming from her. And when I saw her tear up, it hit me hard. Watching your child cry from something beautiful is a kind of healing I never expected.

When they played “Stressed Out” and Tyler Joseph sang, “Out of student loans and tree house homes, we all would take the latter,” it took me back to those simpler times — before bills, pressure, anxiety, and addiction twisted life into knots.

In that moment, I was there. Fully there. No fog, no hangover, no distraction — just a dad and his daughter, surrounded by thousands of people, both singing their hearts out. It felt like we were kids again, just like the song said — when nothing really mattered.

Every second was gratitude.

Every lyric was a reminder of what I almost lost.

And watching her lose herself in the music — that was like looking in a mirror. Only now, instead of losing myself to a drink, I was finding myself in her joy.

Orlando — “The Night I Watched Her World” (The Living Tombstone)

Sunday felt different right from the start. This show wasn’t about me — it was her band, her night, her soundtrack.

We drove into Orlando and checked into our hotel at Disney Springs. The plan was simple: relax, explore, and end the night at the House of Blues — a spot that’s held a lot of good memories over the years.

But when we got there, the room wasn’t ready. Old me would’ve been irritated, looking for a drink or pacing like the world owed me punctuality.

Now? We just wandered.

We walked through Disney Springs, taking our time like we actually had it to give. We stopped for lunch and talked at Splitsville, people-watching and laughing about random things. No agenda. No hurry. Just being together.

Afterward, we window-shopped through World of Disney and ended up sharing a shaved ice. One spoon, two flavors, a few brain freezes — and I couldn’t stop smiling. It wasn’t just fun; it was easy.

Those couple of hours before the show were the kind of hours I used to waste — constantly chasing something bigger, louder, or stronger. Now, they’ve become the ones I value most.

By the time we made it to House of Blues, we were already in that perfect rhythm — no rush, no static, just two people ready to experience something together.

The show itself was pure joy. Kailyn was glowing, explaining the meaning behind songs, pointing out fans dressed like their favorite characters. It reminded me of being a teenager — completely immersed in a band, finding identity and emotion in sound. Only this time, I wasn’t the kid. I was the dad watching his kid discover that same spark.

And every time she turned to me, eyes wide, saying, “I can’t believe I’m here,” I felt that quiet connection — the one that doesn’t need words. The one that says, we’re good now.

Encore Reflection – “The Sound of Presence”

Music has always been my language — even in the years when I didn’t know how to talk about what I was feeling. It used to be my escape, the only place I could feel something safely without having to explain why.

But now, it’s different. I don’t need music to hide anymore. I use it to connect.

I realized that this weekend with Kailyn wasn’t about checking off another “dad thing” or trying to make up for the past on some grand scale. It was about reclaiming what I used to miss — the in-between moments. The drives between cities. The laughter over lunch. The quiet hotel mornings when she’s still half-asleep and I’m just grateful to be there.

Those are the encores I used to rush through.

Back then, I filled silence with noise and plans with escape routes. Now, I fill both with presence. And that’s what this weekend was — proof that clarity sounds a lot like peace.

Sobriety hasn’t just changed how I live. It’s changed how I listen.

I hear more now — the lyrics, the pauses, the laughter that fills the car on the way home.

Maybe that’s the whole point. Maybe recovery isn’t about turning the volume down — it’s about finally hearing what’s always been playing underneath.