I remember this song by Clay Walker that came out in the '90s

In the words of Cole Swindell we hear the cry of a child’s heart, pressed between music and memory: “I remember this song by Clay Walker that came out in the ’90s called ‘This Woman and This Man,’ and it was about breaking up, loss, the pain of moving on, and my parents were just getting divorced at the time, so I listened to it over and over again.” This is more than the recollection of a melody—it is the testimony of how art becomes a refuge in moments of grief. Music here is not entertainment, but sanctuary, a vessel into which sorrow may be poured when words fail.

The song, born of heartbreak, spoke to a boy whose home was shattering. In his parents’ divorce, he recognized in the lyrics the truth of loss, the breaking apart of what was once whole, the ache of separation. He listened “over and over again,” not for novelty, but for solace. This reveals the ancient power of song: that when the human heart is wounded, melody binds the wound, and rhythm teaches the soul how to breathe again. Music, therefore, is not merely sound, but medicine for the unseen.

The ancients understood this mystery. In the days of David, the shepherd-king of Israel, music was wielded to soothe the troubled soul of King Saul. When despair tormented the ruler, David’s harp restored calm. Likewise, the Greeks spoke of Orpheus, whose lyre could soften even the heart of Hades himself. Swindell’s memory of a country song serving as companion in grief is but the modern echo of this eternal truth: music carries us when words and strength fail.

History offers us many who, like Swindell, found in art the courage to endure sorrow. After the devastation of World War II, entire nations turned to songs of mourning and hope to rebuild their spirits. h Piaf’s voice became a beacon for the French, reminding them that though their world lay broken, the human heart could still rise in song. Just as Swindell clung to a single piece of music in his childhood pain, so too did nations cling to their singers and storytellers, finding in them a way forward through despair.

From this quote we also learn of the bond between personal pain and shared art. The boy’s grief was unique, tied to his family, yet the song he chose was written for countless others who knew the sting of broken love. In this way, music reveals a hidden fellowship: it reminds us that we do not suffer alone, that others have walked this road before us. When Swindell pressed play again and again, he was, in truth, reaching out for communion with all souls who had known the sorrow of loss.

The lesson here is profound: when grief comes, do not flee from it, but seek a vessel in which to place it—whether music, poetry, prayer, or conversation. For grief left unspoken festers, but grief carried in song becomes lighter. And if you are not the one grieving, then remember that your art, your words, your presence may one day serve as the song that holds another through their darkest hour. To create with honesty and to share with compassion is to give the world a medicine that no doctor can prescribe.

Practically, this means opening your heart to art in times of suffering. Find the song, the book, the image that gives voice to your silence, and let it carry you. Repeat it, if needed, until your soul finds rest. And for those who create, labor not only for fame or wealth, but for truth—for someone, somewhere, may play your song “over and over again” in the night of their sorrow, and it may be the very thing that helps them endure.

Thus, let us remember Swindell’s wisdom: pain and music are woven together, and in their union lies healing. Life will bring loss; homes will break, hearts will ache, dreams will crumble. But so long as we have songs, we will never be alone. And through these melodies, we move not only through grief, but toward hope, carrying in rhythm and rhyme the strength to rise again.