There’s a song I keep coming back to—”Record Player” by AJR & Daisy the Great. It’s not the melody or the music video that hooked me. It’s the chorus:
“I’ve got a record player that was made in 2014
Dyed my hair blue, it came out a seasick sort of green
I like vintage dresses when they fall just below my knees
I pretend I scraped them climbing in the trees”
The songwriter’s intent is an exploration of identity, imposter syndrome, and trying to find yourself in a world that feels overwhelming. The lyrics are about trying on different personas, feeling stuck in a manufactured version of yourself, questioning your own existence. Many of the lyrics resonate with me in that search for identity. But it’s the chorus that hits me differently.
Most artists will tell you that once a piece is public, it belongs to the listener—and they welcome many interpretations. And the chorus of this song resonates differently for me, connecting to something I see often with my clients.
"I've got a record player that was made in 2014"
A record player made in 2014.
When I hear that line, I think about the way certain years stick with us. Not because we want them to. Not because we’re dwelling on them. But because something happened that year that got etched in deep.
For some people, it’s 2014. For others, it’s 2001, or 2018, or last Tuesday. The record doesn’t care when it was made. It just keeps playing.
The needle drops, and you’re back there. Same thoughts. Same feelings. Same loop.
Not because you chose to remember. Because the record remembers for you.
"Dyed my hair blue, it came out a seasick sort of green"
You try something new. You experiment with hair colors, pick up self-help books, start journaling, download meditation apps. Maybe you even try therapy.
And it’s exhausting when nothing seems to work. Not because you didn’t follow the instructions. Not because you didn’t try hard enough. Sometimes things just… don’t turn out the way you hoped.
And that can feel like proof that you’re broken. That nothing will ever change.
The record keeps playing.
"I like vintage dresses when they fall just below my knees / I pretend I scraped them climbing in the trees"
And then there are the wounds. The scars you don’t want to explain.
“I scraped them climbing in the trees.”
It’s a good story. Believable. Adventurous, even. Definitely easier to tell than the real story—the one about where the wounds actually came from.
Because the real story might be too much. Too vulnerable. Too raw. So you create a narrative that’s easier for people to hear. Easier for you to tell. And eventually, you almost believe it yourself.
But underneath the vintage dress, the wounds are still there.
The record keeps playing.
When I hear this chorus, I hear angst, sadness, pain—and yet, still, a glimmer of hope. So often the same emotions I hear from clients when they talk about:
- Trauma that won’t stop replaying
- Trying to change and feeling like they’re failing
- Stories they’ve created to make their wounds easier to explain
Therapy isn’t about making the record stop. It’s not about finally getting the change right. And it’s not about hiding the wounds better.
Therapy is about understanding why these particular songs keep playing. What they’re trying to tell you. And maybe—eventually—finding a way to turn down the volume, even if the record never stops spinning entirely.
Stuck on Repeat?
If you’ve been replaying the same trauma, trying to change but feeling like you’re failing, or hiding your wounds behind safer stories—therapy can help you understand why.
You don’t have to do this alone.
This content is for informational purposes only and is not a substitute for psychotherapy.