The bass hit like a heartbeat, steady and powerful. The dance floor at Molly Darcy’s was packed, bodies moving in sync with the rhythm I controlled. My hands hovered over the mixer, anticipating the perfect transition, the moment when I could guide the crowd seamlessly from one track to the next. DJing wasn’t just about playing songs; it was about creating an experience, orchestrating emotions with sound. When you hit the right beat at the right moment, it was magic. The whole room vibrated with energy, and for those few hours, nothing else existed. No worries, no past, no future. Just music, movement, and connection.
In life, we don’t always get to control the next track. There’s a moment, a shift, when you realize you’re no longer the person you were, but you’re not yet the person you’re becoming. It’s like standing on the threshold of two worlds, caught between the echoes of the past and the whispers of an uncertain future. I have spent years stepping back from self-judgment, learning to see my own reflection not as a harsh verdict, but as a dialogue—one where I listen, learn, and grow.
Some reflections are harder to face than others. Some memories arrive not as gentle echoes, but as crashing thunder, carrying the weight of moments I wish I could relive. And at the center of it all are my children. Their absence, a deafening silence where there should have been the rhythm of my life.
I remember the last time I hugged my children before everything changed. It was a Sunday evening, and I was dropping them off at their maternal grandmother’s house after my then newly assigned every-other-weekend with Dad. There was nothing unusual about that weekend. At least for me, it was business as usual. On Fridays, I dropped them off at my mom’s and left to “party” the weekend away. By the end, we knew the routine. Walk them to the door, say our goodbyes, tell them I’d see them soon. But something inside me paused that evening. It might have been the look in their eyes, or perhaps I sensed a shift in energy patterns. I pulled them close, wrapping my arms around them a little longer than usual. I can still feel the way my son’s small hands pressed into my back, the way my daughter’s head rested against my chest. But the party was calling, it was time to go. Within the deepest chambers of my heart, I knew that things were about to change.
Just as a song fades out before you’re ready, life shifted in ways I couldn’t control. What was once familiar. Family gatherings, hearing their laughter in my yard, securing the future. It all fell apart and became distant, like a song playing from another room that I could barely make out. Betrayal, complicated emotions, distance. Whatever the reasons, the result was the same. The rhythm of our connection had changed, and I had to learn how to live in its absence.
"One more song, DJ!" a voice called from the crowd, a woman’s silhouette framed in flashing nightclub lights and fog. I gave the nod, queuing up the next track, watching the energy shift as the song blended seamlessly into the next. The room pulsed with life. I felt it in my chest, in my bones. Every transition was a moment of control… until it wasn’t.
A memory slipped in, uninvited but insistent. A different kind of transition. The last time I hugged my kids before everything changed.
"Dad, can we stay a little longer?" my son had asked Sunday evening, his fingers lingering on the car door handle. I smiled, though something in my gut twisted. "You know the rules, bud." Yet again, that haunting echo… "I’ll see you soon, okay?" My daughter, quieter, just looked at me. I pulled them both in, arms tightening around them, holding on just a little longer. Their warmth, their weight, their laughter, so familiar. That was the last time I held them close.
From then on, as the music at Molly’s swelled, I wasn’t in the club anymore. I was standing on that blacktop, watching my kids get whisked into my mother-in-law’s house, their silhouettes framed by the glow of the porch light. I blinked, the bass pulling me back into the present.
Life, it’s like a DJ set. I feel the pulse, anticipate the transitions, hold onto the beat as long as I can. But I didn’t always make the right choices. The song faded out and I was left standing there with disappointment, guilt, regret, and shame. But they don’t have to define the story I’m telling. I’m not the man I was back then. I’m the man who is writing about it, facing it, and refusing to look away.
I have come to understand that redemption isn’t a grand moment of absolution. It is a series of small, deliberate choices. It’s waking up every day and choosing to be present. It is learning that love isn’t about proving something. It’s about being something. About being the kind of person my children would want to now know.
It’s said to step back from the chaos, watch the self with gentle curiosity rather than harsh judgment. I am trying to do that. To see my life, my past, my wounds, not as failures, but as part of a sacred unfolding. I am learning to hold my pain the way I would hold my children if given the chance, softly, without fear, with the quiet understanding that love endures, even in separation.
Years later, I’d find myself in moments reflecting on thoughts for a memoir assignment, hearing a song that reminded me of them. A track I had played one night at Molly Darcy’s, maybe, or a song we used to sing together in the car, perhaps a melody from a Pixar movie we’ve watched a million times together. And just like that, the memories flood back. The weight of my daughter in my arms, my son’s laughter filling the air. I realized that even when life takes people physically away from us, it can’t erase the love we’ve given and received. It can’t silence the echoes of connection.
So here I stand, in the eye of the storm, surveying all that has come before and all that is yet to be. I do not know where this path will lead, but I know this: I am walking it with eyes and heart wide open. Maybe, just maybe, there’s reason enough to keep going because the music still plays, and there are many dances yet to come.