Free Fallin’: The Weight of a Song and What the Music Remembers

Lauren Nixon-Matney • June 15, 2025
Free Fallin’: The Weight of a Song and What the Music Remembers

Tom Petty: Free Fallin'

Trey, I still hear you singing.


The summer before you left, we packed into that giant white van Carl had rented for vacation and drove down to Galveston, the radio set to 92.1, classic rock spilling through the speakers like an anthem to our youth. You and Bobby played your game—five seconds, ten seconds tops to guess the song and the band. You always knew.


Free Fallin’ came on, and I don’t remember if you called it first or if Bobby did, but I remember you singing it. Loud, carefree, like you could feel the song in your bones. You leaned back in your seat, drumming against your knees, letting the wind rush in through the open window as you belted the words. The sun was setting over the highway, turning the sky pink and gold, and for those few minutes, nothing else in the world mattered. You were there. Alive. Laughing. Singing.


And then you were gone.


The night it happened, I was playing Skip-Bo with Becky, cards spread out between us, our world still intact. A knock at the door...late, too late for a visitor.


I opened the door somewhat hesitantly, and there was Donnie, standing on the porch, his face pale, his hands clenched into fists frantic and upset. I had known Donnie for years, but I had never seen him like that.


“I need to talk to your mom.”


His voice cracked on the words.


I don’t know why, but I stalled. “She’s asleep.”


“Lauren,” he said, eyes locking on mine. “Get her up. Now. It’s an emergency!”


I felt it then, before the words even came. The air shifted, thickened, pressing down on me. My hands were numb as I turned and knocked on her door. When she opened it, groggy and confused, Donnie didn’t hesitate. He pulled her into his arms, bursting into tears, and said it.


“There’s been an accident. Trey’s dead.”


I fell to the floor. I think my soul broke in half. It was like the air had been stolen from my lungs, like my body couldn’t hold the weight of those words.


They said you died instantly. That the cars crashed, that there was fire, an explosion. That you didn’t feel a thing. I want to believe that. I have to believe that. But nothing about it felt real. Nothing about it felt fair.


The funeral—God, Trey. The whole town shut down for you. School closed. Stores closed. People spilled out of the doors, into the street, because there wasn’t enough space inside to hold the weight of your absence.


Your mom Jeanette she was shattered. “I need to see my baby,” she cried. Over and over. Running toward the casket, needing to hold you. But Trey there was nothing to hold. Nothing left. And that broke something in all of us.


I think something inside me went quiet after that. Maybe permanently.


Trey wasn’t just my brother’s best friend he was part of our family, part of the noise in our house, part of the stories that made up our childhood.


Bobby didn’t really talk about it. He held it in, buried it beneath a tough exterior—wore his pain like armor. But I know it hollowed him out in ways he never let anyone see. I knew it changed him, the way it changed me. The way it changed all of us.


The thing about Trey was that he didn’t just exist in a room he filled it. He walked in, and suddenly, the air was charged, electric, like something was about to happen. And usually, it was. He had this way of making people feel like they belonged, like they were in on the joke, like the world was a little less heavy just because he was in it.


He was an honor student, smart as hell, but he never acted like it mattered. He wore No Fear shirts like a uniform, chewed Winterfresh gum constantly, and was always drumming on his knees, on desks, on the dashboard of whatever car he was in. He played the actual drums too, of course, but it didn’t matter if he had sticks in his hands or not. Trey was rhythm, movement, noise, life. 


I had known him my entire life, etched into most of my adolescent memories, right there beside Bobby. I loved him so much. He never forgot my birthday. He made me feel like a little sister. He was good to me. He was kind. He protected me. He looked out for me. He always gave me CDs trying to help Bobby fine tune my music taste. When I was really, really young, he used to give me Polly Pockets for birthdays. Every morning, when we picked him up for school, he handed me a stick of gum. Bobby rode up front, which meant Trey rode in the back with me. And I loved it.


One day, years later Free Fallin’ came on the radio.

I was in the car, and before I even realized it, my hands were clenched tight, my breath caught somewhere in my throat. Because suddenly, I wasn’t in the car anymore. I was back there, in that rented van headed to the beach the summer before, Trey in the backseat, drumming on his knees, singing at the top of his lungs like he was invincible.


I can still see them:Carl, Bobby, Trey, and Billy throwing a football on the beach in Galveston that summer, the ocean stretching out behind them, the sun melting into the horizon. A perfect moment, frozen in time. I think I’ll always remember them that way.

The music cut off, the radio host’s voice breaking through, but I wasn’t listening. I was Lost in memory, fists clenched, throat tight, eyes blinking too fast. Just trying to catch my breath.


Some songs don’t belong to the artist anymore. They belong to the moments they were playing in, to the people who made them something more. Free Fallin’ belonged to Trey.


Often, it’s the smallest memories that stick. The ones you don’t realize mean something until years later. When I was little, I used to watch the classic Maverick TV show reruns with my dad. Then, when the Mel Gibson Maverick movie came out, I saw it for the first time at Trey’s house. We sat on his old red iron futon, one of those bunk bed setups with the futon couch set up on the bottom and a twin bed up top.

I don’t know why that moment imprinted on me the way it did, but it’s there, clear as day Trey and I, watching Maverick, the flicker of the screen, the feeling of being completely at home. Maybe it’s no coincidence that years later, when I had a son of my own, his middle name became Maverick.

Sometimes it wrecks me. A sucker punch to the ribs. A weight pressing down on my chest. But other times—other times, it feels like Trey’s still here. In the car. Singing, drumming on his knees, taking up space in the way only he could.


And somehow, through everything, Tom Petty remained a presence. A constant.


In 2008, when Jamie and I were unraveling, my dad got us all tickets to see Tom Petty in The Woodlands. Jamie and I were trying to find our way back to each other, and my dad, in his infinite wisdom, refused to let me “waste that ticket on anyone who wasn’t Jamie”. “You know he’s going, right?” he said. “You know that boy loves you.”


I found myself standing in the middle of a sea of people, Tom Petty’s voice rising into the night air. Jamie stood beside me, the distance between us smaller than it had been in weeks.


Then Free Fallin’ started.


I tensed at first, bracing for the impact, waiting for the ache in my chest to return. But then Jamie reached for me. He slid his arm around my shoulders, pulled me close, and in that moment, the song wasn’t just about Trey anymore. It wasn’t just about grief or ghosts or the past that refused to let go. It was about the present. About love that had endured, about comfort found in the space between loss and healing.


And when Tom Petty sang that final line, I let it wash over me, not as something that hurt, but as something that had lived through all of it and still remained.


See, The thing about Free Fallin’ (the thing about Trey) is that they don’t just exist in the past. They show up in the strangest places. In summers that stretch out long and golden. In the weight of grief that never fully lets go. In the night Jamie and I stood side by side, trying to remember how to hold on.


Tom Petty sang, I’m gonna leave this world for a while.


And Trey did.


But somehow, I’ve never known a world without him.

< Older Post

Newer Post >

RESUME THE RHYTHM:

DRIFT THROUGH A CONSTELLATION OF MEMORY

Searching For Stars

Last Kiss: Melodies That Break Us

By Lauren Nixon-Matney • July 5, 2026
Buddy Holly : Last Kiss Pearl Jam: Last Kiss Cover

Good, Strong Words That Mean Something: A Letter of Light Through Pixelated Waves (for Heidi Clements)

By Lauren Nixon-Matney • July 5, 2026
My favorite literary phrase of all time is spoken by Josephine March, written by Louisa May Alcott in Little Women. “I like good, strong words that mean something.” You, my dear, you say good, strong words that mean something. You put good, strong words that mean something into the world, and I thank you so very sincerely for that. You have made such an incredible impact on my life, and on my outlook on beauty and aging. ⸻ I stumbled across your incredible fashion sense on Instagram and was completely hooked on your vibe. I absolutely love fashion. I always have. I’ve definitely had my own kind of zany style over the years. So when I saw you, I was like, OK, yes, she is amazing. I love this energy. ⸻ The way you put things together, the confidence, the energy, it makes you wanna get up, go into your closet, and actually enjoy getting dressed again. And for a woman approaching 40, who’s had three children and has had many of her own struggles with who am I, what’s my fashion, what’s my energy, or what’s my style, You just felt so damn refreshing and inspiring. So I hung around, but what really hooked me wasn’t just the style, it was you, the essence of you. The way you talk, the honesty, the fact that you just say things straight, no fluff, no sugarcoating, no trying to be anything other than exactly who you are.. and somehow that makes everything you say sound even more profound. ⸻ The impact your message was having in my life became undeniable. It wasn’t just something I watched for enjoyment anymore, it was something I actually began feeling, and carrying with me. I grew up in a time where it felt like there was an expiration date on women. Like if you didn’t fit into a certain mold, or size, or type… your worth somehow became less. And then life happens. You grow up. You age. Maybe have kids. Your body changes. Your priorities change. Somewhere in the middle of all of that, you can kind of lose your sense of… who am I now? What’s my style? Who am I supposed to become? Am I too late for something? What even feels like me anymore? So for a while, I think I actually bought into that idea without even realizing it. The idiodic notion that maybe I had passed some invisible point where things were supposed to quiet down. Tone down. Fit into something more “acceptable.” Or the grand illusion that I was out of time to follow my passions! But watching you… that narrative just started to fall apart. The way you show up, the way you speak, the way you move through the world so fully as yourself… it made me realize that aging isn’t something to fear or shrink from. If anything, it’s where things start to get really good. It’s where you get bolder. More comfortable. More you. More beautiful. ⸻ What you’re doing matters so much. The way you show up, the way you speak, the way you fully own who you are, it doesn’t just stay on a screen. It carries through pixelated waves. It reaches people like me, in real life, in real moments, and shifts something quietly but powerfully within us. So I just wanted to say thank you. For your honesty, your energy, your style, your voice… all of it. You have inspired me, Searching for Stars, and undoubtedly countless women all over the world more than words can truly translate. Thank you, for being you!

Getting Your Pink Back: Answered Prayers, Quiet Signs, Bluebirds and a Business Professional Poodle (A Letter of Light for Lindsey Gurk)

By Lauren Nixon-Matney • May 6, 2026
Okay, so I asked God for a sign this week… and I didn’t make it easy on Him. I had just seen this video about asking for a sign, about how God answers, about how He delights in it… and something in me just… recognized that. Like, oh. I’ve felt that before. Lindsey, it was your video. And the second I heard it, I remembered something. I remembered a time, years ago, back in that early, foggy, pinkless season of motherhood, when I had asked for a sign too. I had prayed, really specifically… really honestly… “God, just show me I’m okay. Show me I’m on the right path.” And I asked for a blue butterfly. I didn’t see it right away. I waited. I wondered if I had imagined the whole idea in the first place. And then, not long after, life moved us somewhere new. A new place, new energy… the kind of move that feels exciting and terrifying all at once. They handed us the keys… and right there on them… was a blue butterfly. And I remember feeling that same quiet recognition. Like… okay. And then, a couple months after that, with prayers inside us building for a second child, we went to a park. One of those ordinary days that turns into something you don’t forget. And there were butterflies everywhere. Hundreds of them. Yellow, filling the air, lifting all at once like something out of a dream. And right in the middle of it… one blue butterfly. I just stood there, overwhelmed, because I knew. I knew I had been heard. Nearly one year to the day later, our second child was born. And then… life kept moving. Time passed. Things got busy. Full. Loud. Beautiful… but a little hazy, too. Somewhere along the way, I think I stopped asking like that. Fast forward. I’m sitting with my kids on New Year’s Eve, going into 2025, talking about goals and dreams. The kind of things you say out loud but don’t always fully claim. “I’ve always wanted to write.” And my daughter, so sure, so certain, just looked at me and said, “Then make it your New Year’s resolution.” And something about the way she said it… she didn’t question it. she didn’t overthink it. She just… believed it was possible. So I did. I started building something I’ve carried in pieces since I was in high school. Old notebooks, scattered thoughts, songs, memories… things I’ve never really known how to explain out loud. And for the first time, it felt like someone actually got it. So I got to work. Writing with a baby asleep on my chest… voice notes, typed drafts, music playing in the background… piecing together old memories with new ones. And I love it. I really do. But if I’m being honest… I started to wonder. Is this meaningful? Is this worth the time? Is this something good… or just something I want? And more than anything… I wanted to know if it was something God saw as good. Not just something that looked meaningful… but something that was. So I sat down, quietly, and I prayed. And I said, “God, if this is something I’m supposed to keep building… if I’m on the right path… if this is your will for me… please just show me. Give me a sign.” And I paused… because I knew I couldn’t ask for something easy. I had asked for butterflies before and blue jays have been unusually common in our backyard lately. I needed something specific. Something I wouldn’t just brush off. I looked over… and saw this little pink and white poodle sitting on my daughter’s shelf. And I laughed a little and said, “Okay God… show me a poodle.” almost sarcastically thinking… well, this one’s going to take a little more effort. But of course… Not even 48 hours later, we ran into Burlington. We were just there to grab socks and shoes for my toddler, her sandals were bothering her. Quick in, quick out. We ended up wandering a little. We’re headed to checkout… and my husband steps down an aisle, picks something up, and goes, “Okay, I know this is ridiculous… but we need this for the office.” And he had no idea. Nothing about my prayer. Nothing about the poodle. I’m barely paying attention yet. And then he turns it around. It’s a painting. Of a poodle. Not just a poodle… a poodle in a full business suit… sitting at a desk… reading a newspaper. I just… stopped. A business professional poodle, for the office we’re building together, a space where I can write. Like everything in me went quiet for a second. Because of all the things in the world I could have asked for… of all the ways that prayer could have been answered… it was that. I remember thinking, smiling, fighting back tears of joy… of course it is. Because I had asked for something specific. And apparently… He has a sense of humor. Also, just to make sure I didn’t miss it… because let’s be real, God definitely knows how to show out… the very next place we went… was Petco. And there was this real poodle. Then again. And again. Every aisle I turned… I kept running into it. And that feeling came back. The same one from before. Quiet. Certain. seen. beloved. Lindsey… Thank you so much, you reminded me to ask. You reminded me that God doesn’t just hear us… He answers. Not always in big, overwhelming ways… but in ways we’ll recognize. In ways that feel personal. Specific. Sometimes even funny… like they were meant just for us. And Lindsey… I just want you to know how much I appreciate all of what you’re doing. Your energy, your humor, the way you show up so fully as yourself… it matters more than you probably realize. You make people laugh, you make motherhood feel seen, and you bring light into spaces that can feel heavy sometimes. But there is also so much more than that… God really radiates through you. In the way you speak, in the way you encourage, in the way you remind people to keep going and to keep believing. It’s powerful. And it’s beautiful to witness. What you’ve created with “get your pink back”… that message, that reminder… it’s reaching people. It’s lifting people. It’s giving something back to women who feel like they’ve poured everything out. And that matters. It really does. I’m so grateful I came across your video when I did. And I’m really looking forward to everything you create next… especially your writing. You’re doing something good here. Keep going. Please never stop casting your light into the world… it really does break through the darkness.
Show More