I don’t really know what it is. The guitar, maybe. The hum. The softness in his voice. The way the rhythm rolls forward light and intricate, like a breeze through the soul. Every time I hear “Never Going Back Again,” something in me lifts. It’s like the song wraps around my spirit, takes it by the hand, and spins me gently through a feeling I can’t explain, but I know it by heart.
This song has always held a special place in my heart. Of all the music I love, this one rises to the top. It’s always meant something more. Some songs come and go, but this one? I always come back to it. I don’t even have to think about it. It’s one of my forever songs. Not just a favorite one I’ll never skip. One I’ll never forget.
Back when vinyl made its comeback (around 2009) Jamie and I bought one of those retro-inspired record players. The kind with built-in speakers and fake wood grain, part nostalgia, part novelty. We started collecting albums one by one, and Rumours was one of the very first. Of course it was. It had to be. There’s something about listening to it on vinyl that nothing else can touch, the warmth, the crackle, the weight of the sound. You don’t just hear “Never Going Back Again.” You feel it.
I remember dancing in the kitchen when we lived in California to this song… barefoot and smiling, Jamie’s hand in mine. Or sometimes just me, floating through the house to the music, the sound of the guitar filling up the space like sunlight on the floor.
I’ve danced with all three of our babies to this one, tucked against my chest in the carrier, their tiny heads resting near my heart. And every time that line comes “been down one time, been down two times, never going back again” I feel it differently than maybe Lindsey Buckingham meant it. For me, it’s not about walking away from someone. It’s about never wanting to return to the version of myself that came before this life. Before Jamie. Before our children. Before I knew this kind of light. Before the life that finally felt like mine.
This song holds a glow for me. The kind you can’t explain, only feel. Like sunlight through blinds on a slow morning. Like your favorite voice humming low in the next room. Like something quietly eternal.
I don’t know how something so short can hold so much, but it does.
