Christmas Day 2024 didn’t just bring mince pies and bad cracker jokes — it brought the start of an obsession. Under the tree that morning sat a record player, wrapped carefully and accompanied by three starter vinyls. At the time, it felt like a thoughtful gift, something nostalgic and novel. I didn’t realise then that it would quietly shape the rhythm of my life over the following semester.
There’s something ceremonial about vinyl. Unlike streaming, it asks you to slow down. You take the record from its sleeve, place it gently on the turntable, lower the needle, and listen — properly listen. That first day, sitting in my room watching the record spin, I felt a kind of calm I hadn’t expected. It wasn’t just music playing in the background; it was an experience.
By January 2025, the starter records were no longer enough. I bought myself a vinyl with the idea that it would be a one-off. It wasn’t. That purchase opened the floodgates, and soon buying records became a small but meaningful ritual. Each one felt earned, chosen carefully rather than added impulsively to a digital library.
As semester two got underway, vinyl began to weave itself into my student routine. In between lectures and tutorials, I found myself wandering into record shops across Glasgow — Assai Records, HMV, Fopp — places I’d passed countless times before but never thought twice about. Now they felt like sanctuaries. I’d flick through crates during study breaks, headphones on, time slipping away. Sometimes I’d leave with a new record tucked under my arm; other times, I’d leave empty-handed but lighter somehow, soothed by the act of browsing alone.
These shops became markers in my week. A quick visit to Assai after a long morning class. A detour into Fopp when I needed to escape the noise of campus. HMV when I wanted something familiar. Each space offered a different atmosphere, but all of them fed the same growing love for physical music — album artwork you can hold, liner notes you can read, and the quiet thrill of finding something unexpected.
More than anything, listening to my records helped me through some tough periods this semester. When deadlines piled up or motivation dipped, vinyl gave me something grounding. Sitting on my bed, watching the record spin, I felt present in a way that scrolling through playlists never quite achieved. Albums played from start to finish became a form of structure when everything else felt overwhelming.
There’s also comfort in imperfection. The soft crackle before a track begins, the need to flip the record halfway through — these small interruptions remind you to pause. To breathe. To be human. In moments where I felt stuck or low, music on vinyl didn’t try to fix anything; it simply kept me company.
Vinyl has taught me patience and intentionality. You can’t skip tracks endlessly or shuffle away uncomfortable emotions. You sit with the music, just as it is, and sometimes that’s exactly what you need. In a semester filled with stress, uncertainty, and constant movement, vinyl slowed me down.
What started as a Christmas gift quickly turned into a constant companion — a soundtrack to late nights, quiet mornings, and everything in between. My collection is still small, but each record holds a memory: the day I bought it, the week I needed it, the version of myself who listened to it first.
As students, we’re often encouraged to move fast, do more, and keep going. Vinyl, for me, has been an invitation to stop. And sometimes, stopping — just long enough for a record to play — can make all the difference.
She/Her
Second Year History and Journalism, Media and Communication student
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