Finding My Voice at 63: Karaoke, Grief, and the Healing Power of a Song

Grief shows up in strange ways. It sneaks into the quiet hours of a morning walk, it lingers in church pews, and it settles in the empty chair at the dinner table. After my wife Patty passed away from Parkinson’s this past May, the silence in my home felt heavier than ever. Even with my good dog, Mr. Jude, padding around the house, the rooms echoed with memories. Somewhere inside that silence—somewhere in the middle of trying to keep going, trying to find rhythm in a world that felt off-beat—I discovered something unexpected: I started singing. Now, let’s be honest. I’m 63 years old. I’ve lived through classic rock, disco, New Wave, and all the wild and wonderful noise of the ’60s, ’70s, and ’80s. But despite all that music around me, I never once had the confidence to sing in public—or even in church. I was the guy who mouthed the hymns and hoped nobody noticed. But grief has a strange way of rearranging your fears. When you’ve lived through something as heavy as watching the love of your life battle Parkinson’s, the fear of singing a little off-key suddenly feels pretty small. So one day, in the quiet of my living room, I cued up a karaoke track and started to sing. It wasn’t pretty at first. Mr. Jude promptly walked out of the room—probably wondering why his dad suddenly sounded like a one-man rock opera. Dogs hear music differently, so maybe all he caught was my voice bouncing off the walls like a siren. I told him he didn’t have to be my biggest fan today. (He still isn’t.) But something happened inside me. I felt lighter. I felt a little freer. I felt, for the first time in a long time, like I could breathe again. What started as one song became two… then ten… then dozens. Classic rock ballads, soft rock, the songs that shaped my young adulthood—and the ones Patty and I used to hear on long drives together. At some point, without really planning it, I began posting the videos on my social media accounts under Galen’sWorldBG. And here’s the surprising part: People watched. People listened. People responded with encouragement. What started as a private moment of healing turned into a small community of folks cheering me on. Some were friends. Some were strangers. But the more I sang, the more I felt myself slowly stitching together pieces of a heart that grief had torn open. Singing has become my therapy. It’s become my companion. And it’s become a reminder that even after loss, life still invites us to create. I’m not trying to win a Grammy. I’m not trying to be the next YouTube sensation. I’m just a widower in Kentucky, singing rock classics in his living room, finding comfort in the stories and melodies that helped shape who I am. Patty may not be here to hear me sing, but I like to think she’d smile at the idea. Maybe she’d shake her head a little, laugh the way she used to, and say, “Galen, sing your heart out.” And that’s exactly what I plan to do. So here’s to late-in-life beginnings. Here’s to music that heals old wounds. And here’s to singing—even when the dog leaves the room. Below are a few of my recent karaoke covers. I hope you enjoy them as much as I enjoyed making them.