When the Radio Dial Feels Like a Rollercoaster -- Lyrical Emotional Rollercoasters

Steel Vengeance at Cedar Point—like life, the climb can be tense, the drop unexpected, and the ride unforgettable.

I love amusement parks. The whole atmosphere is magical. The smell of funnel cakes, French waffles (which I mistakenly called “pancakes” when I was three), and elephant ears. The summertime Christmas-light glow of the rides. The calliope music of the merry-go-round, the screams from hundreds of feet in the air, the laughter, the line-queue conversations. But most of all? That almost-too-intense, can't-not-feel-it sensation of going weightless on a thrill ride.

This blog isn't really about amusement parks, though. It's about those can't-not-feel-it moments in life.

In addition to thrill rides, I also love music. Interestingly, the word “music” and “amusement” come from the same root—but we’ll save that etymology lesson for another day. For now, let’s just say: music can hit just as hard as a rollercoaster drop. Especially when a song marks a season of your life—or a relationship.

For me, back in the early 2000s, Rascal Flatts—whether they knew it or not—were writing the soundtrack to my heart.

I met her the first weekend back at school my junior year. It was at our AmeriCorps welcome-back event. She was stunning. Laughing. Wearing a flowy skirt and a tank top. I couldn’t not notice her. She grabbed at my heart instantly. My head tried to chime in—Curtis, slow down. She looks great, her vibe is fun, but you don’t even know her yet.

That logic lasted about four days—until I saw her again. Not only was she the beautiful new girl in AmeriCorps, but also the beautiful new girl at our weekly campus ministry (Cru) meetings. And this time, I didn’t hesitate.

Now, back to the music.

Our first dance was at a friend’s wedding that December. The song? God Bless the Broken Road by Rascal Flatts. Magic. Meant to be. For once, “too good” felt true.

That spring, Fast Cars and Freedom was everywhere. Her Chevy Cavalier and my Ford Contour weren’t exactly fast, but the feeling was there. We were free. And the music matched the moment.

Then came What Hurts the Most in early 2006—and that one hit different. “Having so much to say, and watching you walk away...”Whew. If you’re not careful, that lyric will burst your emotional pipes like a surprise freeze in April. (April was when we broke up, by the way.)

The story continued. Another hit: Here Comes Goodbye. And then the bittersweet sendoff with My Wish.

Now, almost 20 years later, I still remember those feelings. The highs and lows. The lyrics and their hooks. And one line that still haunts me:

“…all the words that I saved in my heart that I left unspoken.”

That’s the one. That’s the lyric that still pulls tears even now.

Because how many of us are carrying unspoken words?

Words we couldn’t, wouldn’t, shouldn’t, or just didn’t share. They may not consume us every day, but when they rise to the surface, it’s hard to think of anything else.

Roller coasters don’t just give you a feeling in your body. Sometimes, like when you're in the front row of Top Thrill 2 at Cedar Point—the world’s tallest and one of the fastest coasters—they pull tears from your eyes by sheer force. And songs and memories? They can do the exact same thing. One second you’re fine… the next, a lyric hits, and suddenly you’re not. Like an emotional lyrical rollercoaster.

And the thing about roller coasters?

Even when they’re terrifying, you’re usually safe—harnessed in, brakes ready, engineers watching every detail. But in life, it doesn’t always feel like that. There’s no seatbelt for heartbreak. No safety bar for regret. And when the emotional drop hits, it’s hard to know where to turn—hard to feel like anyone's watching the control panel.

That’s where counseling comes in. Like a mid-course brake run, it gives you a pause—a chance to catch your breath, make sure nothing is spiraling out of control, and prepare for what’s ahead with more clarity and courage.

It doesn’t change the ride. But it makes it safer. More manageable. More human.

If you’re carrying unspoken words—or feeling the weight of the ride—I’d be honored to sit with you. Safely. Steadily. Wherever you are in the journey.

Let’s talk.