A Veteran’s Journey with the Kalimba

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" It was a quiet afternoon in a small coffee shop in Topeka, Kansas, when I met John Anderson. A retired Army sergeant in his mid-forties, John had agreed to meet with me after a brief phone conversation where I explained my interest in how music, particularly the kalimba, could help veterans cope with post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). He arrived with a calm demeanor, a presence that spoke of years of discipline and resilience.

As we settled into our conversation, he began recounting how music had never played a significant role in his life—at least not in the way it does now. Before his retirement from the military, his life had been filled with the chaos of deployments, the rigor of training, and the unrelenting sense of duty. He never imagined that something as small as a kalimba, a simple thumb piano, could become his refuge."

A Gift That Changed Everything

John received his kalimba as a gift from his daughter. She had handed it to him one evening, its polished wooden frame reflecting the warm glow of their kitchen lights. It was a small instrument, almost unassuming, yet the moment his thumbs pressed against the tines and a soft, bell-like sound filled the air, something shifted within him. It was different from the music he was used to—the roaring engines of helicopters, the sharp orders from commanding officers, the abrupt blasts of distant explosions. The kalimba was gentle, soothing, unintrusive.

At first, he regarded it with mild curiosity, not quite understanding why Emily had thought of giving him something so simple. But as the days passed, he found himself reaching for it more often, drawn by the quiet peace it offered.

The Weight of Memories

For John, adjusting to civilian life had been difficult. The structured environment of the military, where every day was meticulously planned and every action had a clear purpose, had given way to the unpredictability of the world outside. He spoke candidly about how small, everyday occurrences could unexpectedly trigger intense memories—fireworks that mimicked the sound of gunfire, the smell of diesel fuel that reminded him of convoys, the sharp, dry air that transported him back to the desert heat of the Middle East.

Some nights were worse than others. Sleep was elusive, haunted by recollections that played on repeat in his mind. He tried everything—meditation, deep breathing exercises, even therapy—but nothing seemed to quiet the storm. Then came the kalimba.

He described how, on one particularly restless night, he picked up the instrument almost instinctively. With no plan, no formal knowledge of chords or melodies, he let his thumbs glide across the tines. The notes that emerged were soft and repetitive, like the steady rhythm of ocean waves. He kept playing, losing himself in the simplicity of the sounds, and, for the first time in a long time, he felt his breathing slow, his thoughts untangle, and his mind quieten.

A Tool for Grounding and Calm

As John continued to integrate the kalimba into his daily life, he noticed a pattern. Whenever he felt a wave of anxiety creeping up, he would reach for the instrument. It became a grounding tool, something tangible that could anchor him to the present. The act of playing was as much about the physical sensation as it was about the sound—his thumbs pressing against the smooth metal, the soft vibrations that resonated through the wooden body, the rhythmic motion that required just enough concentration to pull him away from distressing memories.

He likened it to the way soldiers are trained to focus under pressure—zeroing in on a single task to regain control. For him, the kalimba served that purpose. It wasn’t just an instrument; it was a lifeline.

Music as a Bridge to Healing

Through his daughter’s studies, John learned more about how music therapy is being increasingly used to help veterans manage PTSD. He was fascinated by the science behind it—how certain frequencies and rhythmic patterns could influence brain activity, how engaging in music-making could activate the parasympathetic nervous system, reducing stress and promoting relaxation.

He admitted that, at first, he was skeptical. The idea that something as simple as playing a tune could rewire his brain felt almost too easy. But the evidence was there, not just in studies and research papers, but in his own experience. He had felt it firsthand—the way his heart rate steadied when he played, the way intrusive thoughts gradually faded into the background.

Sharing the Experience with Others

What started as a personal coping mechanism soon became something more. As John became more comfortable with the kalimba, he started bringing it to his local veterans’ support group. At first, he wasn’t sure how it would be received—many of the men and women there had their own ways of dealing with their past, and he didn’t want to impose his experiences on them.

But when he played, something interesting happened. The room, usually filled with heavy conversations and subdued emotions, seemed to lighten. People listened. Some asked questions. A few even tried the instrument themselves, plucking tentative notes with their calloused fingers.

One man, a former Marine who had struggled with severe anxiety, later told John that the kalimba’s sound reminded him of the wind chimes his mother used to hang on their porch when he was a child. Another veteran, who rarely spoke during meetings, started opening up more after a few sessions where John played.

It was a small thing, but in that shared space of quiet music and understanding nods, a new kind of therapy was taking place.

A Different Kind of Strength

John has never considered himself a musician. He doesn’t read sheet music, nor does he strive for perfection in the melodies he plays. But he has come to see music as another form of strength—one that doesn’t require force, strategy, or command, but rather patience, vulnerability, and a willingness to listen.

He reflected on how, in the military, strength was often measured in endurance, in one’s ability to push forward despite exhaustion or fear. But the kind of strength he is now learning through music is different. It’s about allowing himself to feel, to process, to heal at his own pace.

Looking Ahead

John doesn’t claim that the kalimba has erased his struggles. There are still nights when sleep evades him, still moments when memories resurface with sharp intensity. But what has changed is his ability to navigate those moments. He no longer feels powerless against them.

He continues to play, sometimes for himself, sometimes for others. He’s even started teaching his granddaughter how to use the instrument, watching as her small fingers explore the same notes that have brought him so much comfort.

As our conversation came to an end, John picked up the kalimba he had brought along and played a few notes absentmindedly. The sound was soft, warm, and unhurried, much like the man himself.

I left that afternoon with a renewed appreciation for the quiet power of music. In a world that often demands loudness and force, there is something profoundly healing in the simplicity of a kalimba’s song—a song that, in John’s case, has become not just a means of escape, but a way back to himself.