“Did you like my music?

Be honest with me.”

If Eric Clapton ever asked me that question face to face, I don’t think my heart would stop — but I know it would slow down. Because honesty like that doesn’t arrive lightly. It demands something deeper than politeness, deeper than admiration, deeper even than fandom.

I wouldn’t tell him that I like his music.

That word is far too small.

“Like” is what you say about a song you play on the radio.

“Like” is what you say when something passes through your life without leaving a scar.

Eric Clapton’s music never passed through my life.

It stayed.

It stayed in the quiet hours when the world felt too loud.

It stayed when grief didn’t have words.

It stayed when strength ran out and all that remained was survival.

His guitar never rushed to comfort me. It didn’t shout hope or demand healing. Instead, it sat down beside me and said, “I know this pain too.” That is a rare thing — art that doesn’t try to fix you, but refuses to abandon you.

I didn’t turn to Clapton’s music during celebrations.

I turned to it when I was breaking.

When nights stretched endlessly and silence became dangerous, his slow bends and aching notes filled the room like a steady breath. Not dramatic. Not flashy. Just honest. Just human.

People often talk about Eric Clapton in terms of greatness — the legendary solos, the technical mastery, the timeless songs. And all of that is true. But none of that explains why his music matters the way it does.

The real impact of his music lives far away from stages and spotlights.

It lives in hospital rooms where time barely moves.

In empty apartments where the walls echo too much.

In long drives taken just to avoid standing still.

In moments when getting through the day feels like an act of courage.

His music didn’t distract me from pain.

It acknowledged it.

There is a difference between art that entertains and art that accompanies. Clapton’s music has always chosen the second path. His songs don’t deny suffering — they transform it. They remind you that pain doesn’t disqualify you from beauty. Sometimes, it is the source of it.

And maybe that’s why his music feels so personal to so many people. Because it was born from real loss, real regret, real recovery. You can hear it in every note — not perfection, but endurance.

So when Eric asks, “Did you like my music?” what he’s really asking is something else entirely.

He’s asking whether the years mattered.

Whether the honesty landed.

Whether the pain he carried became something meaningful.

And the answer is this:

I didn’t grow up listening to his music.

I grew through it.

It shaped how I understood grief.

It softened how I carried memory.

It taught me that sadness doesn’t have to be hidden — it can be sung, bent, and turned into something that heals others.

His music didn’t save my day.

It saved parts of me I didn’t know how to protect.

So no, Eric — I didn’t just like your music.

I lived with it.

I leaned on it.

And in ways that matter more than applause or charts or history books, it helped make me who I am.

And that kind of impact doesn’t fade.

It stays — long after the final note.