Shattered No Longer: 11 Songs That Woke Me Up in 2026
December 31, 2025 / January 1, 2026
Introduction
There’s something sacred about letting chance build a story for you.
Tonight I didn’t curate a playlist, didn’t construct a narrative, didn’t force meaning.
I hit shuffle at the threshold between one year and the next and let the universe decide what sound would carry me into 2026.
“New Year’s Eve Man” (2020)… in phases. This figure wasn’t planned or corrected. It’s raw nerve and instinct — a body made of conflict, strength, memory, and motion. The proportions fight each other, the colors collide, the lines refuse to behave — and because of that, it feels human. It’s not polite. It’s alive.
What followed wasn’t random. It was a map:
Rage,
memory,
momentum,
grief,
humor,
darkness,
sexuality,
absurdity,
defiance …
All of it stitched itself together in real time like the year saying, “Here. This is your mirror. This is the language of your survival.”
This isn’t a sentimental list of songs I like. This is a pulse reading. This is what my nervous system sounds like.
This is the noise I carry, the beauty I refuse to stop believing in, the grit I’ve earned the hard way.
This is 2026 saying: I see you. Let’s do this.
A New Year, loud as hell
Midnight didn’t gently arrive this year. It punched the door open, walked into the room dripping gasoline, and handed me a match.
And honestly? I needed it. It wasn’t candles and reflection and “new beginnings.”
It was grief.
Rage.
Gratitude.
Joy.
Whiskey heat.
Loneliness.
Relief.
Nostalgia.
Love.
Hunger.
Fear of time.
A body that finally remembered it was alive. A heart beating hard enough to argue with the darkness. And the soundtrack didn’t just accompany me through it.
It dragged me through it.
This is not a curated list — it is the random order of the shuffled songs from my “Liked Songs” on Spotify!
Song 0 — Crossing the Fault Line
Linkin Park – New Divide
Last song of the old year. The crack in the earth. This year has been a war.
I lost someone I loved so deeply that it rewired me.
I lost money.
I lost safety.
I lost the illusion that I could control anything.
And yet I didn’t crack in half.
I just stepped over.
It wasn’t healing.
It wasn’t closure.
It was just: “Okay. We’re done here. Move.” And I did.
Song 1 — NOT A QUIET START
Linkin Park – A Place For My Head
First song of the new year, and it did not whisper. It screamed for me.
It ripped open the places I keep calm for other people. It said the things I bite back.
It held my throat and yelled through my lungs. That song doesn’t soothe.
It blows the dust off buried anger.
Good.
It needed air.
Song 2 — The Human Pulse
Talking Heads – Perfect World
After the noise, the body. Not peace. Not happiness.
Just… pulse.
Beat.
Rhythm.
Breath.
Something I could move my shoulders with. Something that didn’t hurt.
I don’t need a perfect life. Just a beating one…
One where:
My mom smiles at a birthday card I made
I still draw
I still fuck up
I still care
And I do.
Song 3 — The Sediment That Never Washes Out
Staind – Mudshovel
Let’s not lie to ourselves.
There is shit inside me that does not wash away just because time passes. Rage. Shame. Masculine pride and masculine failure. The numb parts. The crater where trust once lived.
This song doesn’t heal.
It mirrors.
Sometimes, the healthiest thing a nervous system can do is blast something loud enough that the truth vibrates loose.
I didn’t drown.
I didn’t collapse.
I stayed.
Song 4 — The Nuclear Core
Nirvana – Scentless Apprentice
My favorite Nirvana track.
Not for nostalgia.
Not because I’m trying to be young.
Not because Kurt is a ghost-halo memory.
Because it feels like what my fucking heart sounds like.
It is alive.
It is battered.
It is not polite.
It is not presentable.
It is here.
And that matters. “You didn’t kill me. None of you did.”
That’s what it said. And I believed it.
Song 5 — Forward Motion
Rob Zombie – Never Gonna Stop
Not sentimental. Not inspirational poster material.
Just: Forward motion.
I am not rebuilding.
I am not recovering.
I am not crawling.
I am continuing.
Different energy entirely.
Song 6 — And Then the Universe Winked
Butthole Surfers – Pepper
Because of course.
Because the cosmos never lets you believe your transformation story is sacred and untouchable. It kicks you in the shin and laughs with you. This wasn’t mockery.
It wasn’t dismissive.
It was:
“Yes, Jeff, that was real.
Yes, you’re allowed to grow.
Yes, you’re allowed to survive.”
BUT DON’T BECOME A STATUE OF YOUR OWN PAIN.
Laugh.
Be weird.
Enjoy the absurd.
Stay human.”
And I did.
Am.
Will.
What Actually Happened: I loved someone who couldn’t love me anymore.
I broke. Then I didn’t.
I gave my mom something meaningful and watched her light up. I drank good bourbon alone and didn’t hate myself for it.
I remembered music keeps people alive.
And somewhere between Linkin Park screaming, Nirvana ripping me open, and Butthole Surfers smirking like a cosmic coyote god…
I stopped feeling shattered.
Not fixed.
Not enlightened.
Not transcendent.
Just… unbroken enough to keep going.
And that is enough.
Song 6 — Masks, Personas, Survival Games
DEVO — Secret Agent Man
This one didn’t just play. It called me out.
Because I’ve lived a lot of my life like that:
performing,
managing,
strategizing,
shape-shifting into what other people needed.
Good husband.
Good teacher.
Good son.
Good emotional support.
Good at saying,
“I’m fine.”
“Don’t worry about me.”
“Of course, I understand.”
There’s a cost to that. DEVO knows it. I felt it. You wear the mask so long, you forget what your real face feels like. This song didn’t hurt.
It unmasked.
Not accusing. Just saying: “Hey man… It’s safe to stop pretending now.”
And it is. And it isn’t. And that’s the truth.
Song 7 — Relentless, Hungry, Still Moving
CAKE — The Distance
And then this.
THIS.
Not sentimental.
Not fragile.
Not wounded.
Purpose.
Drive.
Forward.
Fuel.
There’s something deeply human in that bassline — that “I will keep going even when nobody is fucking watching, nobody cheering, nobody handing out prizes.”
The car keeps circling the track because the heart keeps circling the chest.
The Distance is not about winning. It’s about not quitting. And that’s where I am.
Not soaring.
Not triumphant.
Just:
foot on the gas.
eyes forward.
engine warm.
refusing to park.
Because I’m not done.
And I don’t think life is done with me, either.
Oh fuck.
Pearl Jam – Daughter changes the air in the room.
This one isn’t loud catharsis. It isn’t swagger. It isn’t adrenaline.
It’s ache. It’s tenderness. It’s the part of your chest that bruises quietly.
Song 8 — The Soft Ache Beneath Everything
Pearl Jam — Daughter
This one lands somewhere deep in the ribs.
Not rage.
Not grief that screams.
Not defiance.
This is the ache of a relationship.
Complicated love.
The messy tenderness of family.
The ways love fails and tries anyway.
There’s something in Daughter that feels like:
The kid version of us who wasn’t fully understood
The parent version of us who wishes we could protect everyone
The version of us that still wants to be seen, softly, without having to perform strength
It’s empathy and exhaustion braided together.
And hearing it tonight — after noise, after swagger, after rage, after humor — it feels like the universe gently putting a hand on your shoulder and saying:
“Hey… I know the loud stuff is real. But the quiet wounds count too.” It’s the part of you that loves your mom fiercely. The part that resents dysfunction but still shows up.
The part that worries about your daughter, about women you’ve loved, about the ways people get hurt in families and carry invisible scars.
This song is the moment in the story where the warrior sits down. Not defeated. Just… human.
Breathing.
Letting the armor rest on the floor for a minute. Because even survivors need to feel tender without apologizing for it. More songs come, and I follow them.
But Daughter?
That’s a deep-heart checkpoint. Not shattered. Not raging. Just feeling. Still here. Still capable of tenderness. Still capable of love. That matters.
This next one feels like the exhale after the scream — not calm, but steadied. Not healed, but claimed.
Song 9 — The One That Reminds Me I’m Still Becoming
Marilyn Manson — The Beautiful People
A reminder that the world plays favorites, markets illusions, and rewards the mask.
But I don’t live in that hierarchy anymore. I’ve seen how beautiful people can rot underneath and how broken people can glow.
This track spits in the face of the machine and refuses to smile pretty for anyone. It burns, it mocks, it exposes — and I’m done pretending I don’t see it. This is the track where the noise settles into clarity.
Not because things are easier, but because I finally stop fighting myself. The adrenaline burns off, and what’s left isn’t emptiness — it’s presence.
This song doesn’t rage for me;
It steadies my hands.
It says,
You made it through the fire.
Now do something with the heat.
It’s not victory music.
It’s rebuilding music.
It’s the moment I realize:
I am not a shattered thing
trying to glue myself back together.
I am a living thing still evolving.
And I don’t need to be fixed.
I just need to keep becoming.
Then comes #10, a song that says, “I’m still here. And I’m not done yet.”
It’s not the loudest one.
It’s not the prettiest one.
It’s the one that knows you.
Maybe it’s hopeful without lying. Maybe it’s blistered but still laughing. Maybe it’s just a fucking groove that makes your shoulders relax, and your lungs remember how to breathe.
You’ll know it because:
Your chest will feel open
Not clenched
Not wired
Not shattered
Not burning
Just steady.
So who claims the #10 spot?
DEVO claiming the #10 spot is chef’s kiss because it does EXACTLY what the end of this playlist needed to do:
It doesn’t sentimentalize.
It doesn’t collapse.
It grins, bares teeth, and says:
“Yeah, the world is absurd… so let’s fucking dance through it.”
Song 10 — DEVO (…because of course it’s DEVO)
DEVO — Gut Feeling / (Slap Your Mammy)
DEVO closes it because DEVO has always told the truth:
The world is
bizarre,
de-evolving,
ridiculous,
violent,
hilarious,
heartbreaking,
and somehow still danceable.
This isn’t triumph in the Hollywood sense.
This is survival with eyebrows raised.
This is joy that refuses to be naïve.
This is absurdity embraced instead of fought.
This is humor as armor.
This is rebellion with a grin.
This is me walking into 2026
not as a shattered man,
not as a victim,
not as a saint,
but as someone fully awake,
fully strange,
fully alive…
and still moving forward.
Song 11 — The One Your Therapist (Probably) Won’t Recommend
Disturbed – Violence Fetish
This isn’t redemption music.
This is teeth-bared,
Blood-in-the-mouth,
Don’t-you-fucking-dare look away music.
This is the sound of rage that’s been swallowed for too many years, finally kicking down the door and screaming its own name.
It’s not polite.
It’s not healed.
It doesn’t want to heal.
It wants to burn the rot out.
It wants to rip the pressure valve off and let the steam howl.
This track isn’t about losing control — it’s about claiming the part of yourself you learned to hide. The part that refuses to be nice. The part that refuses to shrink.
The part that says:
I am still here.
I am still dangerous.
And I am done apologizing.
Closing
By the time the last track hit, I realized I wasn’t documenting music — I was documenting a spine:
A refusal to disappear. A willingness to stay human in a world that keeps trying to sand the edges off everything raw and real. These songs are not soothing. They don’t fold their hands politely.
They kick,
They sneer,
They laugh,
They ache,
They insist on motion.
And that is exactly what I needed.
I am not shattered anymore.
Not healed into something polished and perfect — but reforged into something stronger, stranger, more honest.
I am still loud.
Still tender.
Still here.
Still moving.
2026, I’m not entering quietly.
Turn it up!
Let’s go.
I didn’t pick these songs.
My nervous system did.
My grief did.
My rage did.
My hope did.
And honestly… they chose well.
If this is how 2026 begins,
Then I’m not afraid of it.
I’m ready to meet it at full volume.
Jeff Brackett
Artist • Writer • Educator
Exploring the intersections of art, autism, and human connection through the ongoing creative project Lines on the Spectrum — an illustrated memoir in progress.
https://www.jeffreymbrackett.com
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