I found peace listening to a street violinist in front of the Sagrada Família in Barcelona

La Sagrada Família

“I did my best, it wasn't much. I couldn't feel, so I tried to touch. I've told the truth, I didn't come to fool ya. And even though it all went wrong, I'll stand before the Lord of song, with nothing on my tongue but hallelujah.”
Hallelujah - Leonard Cohen

The first time I saw the Sagrada Família basilica in Barcelona was in 2024. I’d seen hundreds of photos of this iconic cathedral but seeing it in person is hard to describe. Entering the grand cathedral for the first time, I was speechless. I’ve been a long admirer of architecture and design and I was blown away by the magnitude of its beauty.

The way the stained glass windows are intentionally warm (reds and oranges) on the west for the afternoon sunset opposite the cool (blues and greens) on the east to face the morning light, is astounding.

Depending on the time of your visit, the atmosphere changes based on where the sun comes through the glass. When you stand at the center of the church, you’re invited to experience the swirl of colors offering intrigue and wonder.

I returned to Barcelona in 2026 to once again admire it’s beauty, now completed after 144 years, officially making it the tallest church in the world. I didn’t expect to leave having seen something else entirely; a person who spent years avoiding feelings, actually feel. Me.

We took our time strolling through the Plaça de Gaudí, taking a moment to snap photos of the cathedral’s impressive reflection in the adjacent pond. As we made our way to the edge of the tree lined path, I could immediately feel the weight of a spiritual connection. Similar to the one I had the first time I laid eyes on the sacred site. It would be hard not to, I suppose.

I paused to take it all in when suddenly, I was drawn to a particular sound coming from my right. A solo violinist, without any speakers or a grand stage, was playing Hallelujah by Leonard Cohen. It was soft at first and I could’ve missed it entirely given the bustling nature of activity surrounding the monument. But once I heard it, all of the noise came to a quiet hum.

It was me and the violinist, alone, sharing a spectacular moment. A magnificent and profound moment where I let everything fall away and became fully present.

A magnificent and profound moment.

It wasn’t necessarily a spiritual experience… it was a human one.

I didn’t feel the presence of a God but maybe something bigger happened. I let myself feel in that moment. I’ve spent so much of my adult life avoiding feeling. I’ve been on anti-anxiety meds and antidepressants since I was in college.

During a particularly challenging time in my life, I asked my doctor to prescribe me something so I wouldn’t feel a thing… I told him I wanted to be a zombie. Because that felt easier than the alternative. When I was formally diagnosed as bipolar in 2020, I thought having the knowledge that it was a chemical imbalance I couldn’t control would be better. It wasn’t. Not at first.

I spent many, many months feeling like my episodes were simply part of my identity and my pain was punishment for the many mistakes I’ve made in my life. A penance of sorts. I believed I had to live with the pain in order to live. So I did what I could to silence the voices, to escape the pain—I drank. And I took a myriad of pharmaceuticals to assist.

I suppressed my emotions so carefully, I did become something like a zombie like I’d wished—maybe even better—I became a robot. I was a walking, talking, breathing body that operated on a soulless level. I found a way to smile when I needed to. To laugh when I couldn’t. And cried only in private. I slept instead of being sober. I drank until I was numb. I became a version of myself that I thought people wanted.

I continued in this cycle until my body gave out and I was forced to face my issues. I could no longer reach for a bottle when I started to feel. I could not longer suppress my emotions, because I learned that if I didn’t address them, they’d find their way out and it wouldn’t be pretty.

I had to learn to sit with my feelings. To be in pain. I had to reprogram my brain to accept the feelings as they arose because running from them became impossible.

For the first few months after getting sober, it seemed like feeling was all I did. I was white-knuckling my sobriety. I woke up drenched in sweat every single night. I wasn’t ready to face everything I had spent years burying but I didn’t get to choose how and when they came up. I just had to wait for each one and hold on for dear life until it passed.

Eventually, I discovered that talk therapy was a way to manage those deeply suppressed feelings. My therapist taught me how to cope with each and even how to decide which emotion I could face at any particular time. I gained control over my thoughts and when I was in charge, I could handle each with the proper care needed.

Feeling is not the same as suffering.

You can feel something without becoming it… I came to peace with my fears.

Feeling is not the same thing as suffering. You can feel something without becoming it. You can experience sadness without being consumed by sadness. You can experience fear without needing to escape it. And you can experience joy without needing to manufacture it.

Although I’m far too familiar with feelings, I didn’t spend much of my life making space for them. Today, I can. And I do. I’m able to give myself grace when needed and separate myself from the more painful ones I’m still learning to navigate. That day, in front of the Sagrada Família in Barcelona, listening to an a’cappella rendition of one of my favorite songs, Hallelujah, I came to peace with my fears.

That song has brought me to tears many of times in my life but this was different. I could feel the strings of my soul vibrating in concert with the familiar melody. I almost went numb as the artist played and I took in the site before me. Only a single tear fell from my eye as I let it all engulf me.

A single tear that provided me with an awareness of how wonderful life can be - full of small, magical moments that I get to experience - because I am still here. I stood before one of the greatest and most extraordinary landmarks in the world and let myself feel and I was ok.