In Defense of Loving Music So Much It Becomes a Personality Trait
There’s a specific kind of love that doesn’t sit politely in your chest. It moves in, rearranges the furniture, and starts blasting its favorite song at full volume while yelling, “YOU HAVE TO HEAR THIS PART.”
That love is music.
And if you’ve ever been part of guard - color guard, winter guard, the beautifully chaotic flag-tossing, body-throwing, soul-bearing art form, then you know it’s not just music. It’s music plus community plus a mildly concerning willingness to rehearse the same eight counts until time itself loses meaning.
Loving music deeply is not a hobby. It’s a condition.
It’s feeling a note hit your sternum so hard you have to blink a few times. It’s knowing exactly where the crescendo lives in your body. It’s getting chills over a key change like your nervous system just won a prize. Music doesn’t ask permission. It just shows up and says, “Hey. I’m going to live in you now.”
And guard? Guard takes that love and hands you a flag, a rifle, or a sabre and says, “Cool. Now throw it.”
Guard is what happens when people decide that music should not only be heard, but seen, felt, and occasionally dropped on the floor with a loud clatter while everyone pretends that didn’t just happen. It’s storytelling with bruises. It’s art with athletic tape. It’s the magical place where you learn that your body is an instrument too—and sometimes it’s slightly out of tune and needs water.
But here’s the thing no one warns you about: you don’t just fall in love with the activity. You fall in love with the people.
You fall in love with the inside jokes that make absolutely no sense outside of rehearsal.
With the collective gasp when someone sticks a toss they’ve been fighting all week.
With the way everyone suddenly becomes a motivational speaker when someone says, “I can’t do this.”
Guard teaches you how to love something together. Loudly. Earnestly. Without irony.
And that’s kind of rare.
Because adult life loves to tell us to be chill about the things we care about. Don’t try too hard. Don’t be dramatic. Don’t feel everything at full volume. But music people? Guard people? We missed that memo because we were too busy crying over a perfectly timed hit.
We love things on purpose.
We love them enough to rehearse in the snow, the cold, the rain, and whatever weather condition can only be described as “character building.” We love them enough to argue about counts, spacing, and whether that moment is supposed to feel “sharp” or “desperate.” We love them enough to trust each other with our bodies, our timing, and our hearts.
But loving something this deeply does something important to you.
It teaches you how to commit.
How to listen.
How to fail publicly and try again anyway.
How to belong.
Indoor Percussion and Winter Guard create a community where feeling deeply isn’t embarrassing, it’s the point. Where passion isn’t something you downplay, but something you share. Where you learn that loving something with your whole soul doesn’t make you soft, it makes you strong, resilient, and very good at eight-counts.
And long after the season ends, long after the uniform is packed away and the calluses fade, the love stays.
You’ll still feel it when a certain song comes on.
When a flag snaps in the wind.
When a beat drops exactly where your heart expects it to.
Because some loves don’t leave. They just change form.
And honestly? If you’re going to love something, you might as well love it like this.
Whole-hearted. Slightly unhinged. Deep in your soul.
Preferably with music playing and people beside you who feel it too.
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