But probably my favorite music, believe it or not, is sad music.

The words of Walton Goggins, “But probably my favorite music, believe it or not, is sad music,” reveal a truth as ancient as the first trembling note that ever rose from the human heart. For in the realm of feeling, it is often sorrow that touches the deepest chord. Joy dances upon the surface of life, but sadness — sadness sinks, echoing through the soul’s caverns where memory, loss, and beauty dwell together. Those who love sad music do not seek despair; they seek understanding. They listen not to weep, but to remember that they are alive.

The ancients knew this well. The Greeks had their threnodies, songs of mourning sung not to wallow but to purify the spirit. When Orpheus played upon his lyre, his melodies were so full of longing that even the stones wept and the trees leaned closer to hear. His music did not banish grief — it transformed it. So too, when Walton Goggins speaks of his love for sad music, he is speaking of the art of turning pain into beauty, of transmuting sorrow into a light that softens rather than burns.

Sad music, in its mysterious way, gives form to what words cannot hold. When a man’s heart is heavy, he cannot always speak — but he can listen. The minor key becomes a mirror, the trembling note becomes confession. Consider Beethoven, who, when robbed of his hearing, composed his most tender and aching works — the Moonlight Sonata, the Pathetique. Though silence had claimed his ears, music flowed from him like a prayer torn from the heavens. His sadness was not weakness; it was the root of his genius, the proof that the soul does not die even when the body falters.

Those who fear sadness often misunderstand it. They think it is darkness, when in truth it is the shade beneath the tree of wisdom. The heart must sometimes break so that it may learn to see — not only the pain of its own story, but the quiet ache that unites all human beings. Sad music allows us to feel this unity. When one listens to a sorrowful song, one feels not isolation but kinship. In that gentle ache, the listener recognizes countless unseen others who have felt the same. It is in sadness that empathy blooms.

There is a story told of the Japanese art of kintsugi, where broken pottery is repaired with veins of gold. The cracks are not hidden; they are exalted. The brokenness becomes the most beautiful part. Sad music is the kintsugi of the soul. It fills our fractures with melody, reminding us that what has been shattered can still shine. To listen to it is to honor the places where life has touched us most deeply — where we have lost, loved, and endured.

Even the birds know this truth. The nightingale sings not in the bright morning, but in the dark. Its song is not for applause, but for the moon and for its own heart. Such is the nature of sad music — it does not demand to be understood; it asks only to be felt. It whispers that every tear has meaning, and that beauty often hides in the soft corners of grief. It is the song of those who have walked through the storm and still have the courage to hum.

The lesson, then, is simple yet eternal: do not flee from your sadness. Listen to it. Let it sing to you. Within its melancholy lies truth, within its stillness lies strength. Play the sad song, not to drown in it, but to find the sacred rhythm of healing. For only those who have known sorrow can fully taste joy — just as the dawn is sweetest to those who have endured the night. Embrace the music of your own heart, whatever key it plays in, and let it teach you to live with both tenderness and courage.