Some songs collide into you, electric and unstoppable, like a storm ripping through the quiet. Hurricane by Something Corporate has always felt that way to me—a surge of sound and feeling, a force too strong to ignore inspiring my body to be healed by the movement of dance. So I danced through youth, through heartbreak, through the kind of nights that made me feel infinite. And then life shifted, like storms do. The winds changed. The hurricane carried me somewhere new.
Stand up, don’t make a sound. Your ears might bleed.
That’s how it felt back then—standing on the edge of something too big to name, the weight of youth pressing against my ribs, the pulse of the music keeping time with my heart. There were sweet fluorescent enemies that lived inside of me, restless thoughts that only seemed to quiet when I let the music drown them out. And Hurricane? It wasn’t just a song. It was permission—to scream, to move, to let it all go.
The world moves faster than I knew…
This song has followed me through the years, shifting shape but never losing its urgency. It’s been a battle cry, a soundtrack to my youth, a reminder that movement is survival. And somehow, it became part of a new rhythm—the background melody of my son’s childhood.
Not fast enough to not creep up on you…
He began to play it often and on repeat at around four years old, humming along to lyrics he didn’t yet understand but somehow felt. Maybe that’s the magic of music—the way it lingers, threading itself into our stories, carrying echoes of who we were while keeping us tethered to who we’ve become.
And the space we put between…
That space is vast, stretching across years, across lifetimes. But some songs collapse time, pulling past and present together until it’s all one infinite, spinning moment. Hurricane is that song for me. No matter how far I go, how much life changes, when it plays, I am caught in the current again—singing, dancing, and feeling alive.
Because some storms never pass. They just find new ways to move through you.
