Case Studies
Up to this point, I’ve been working through what science and theory have to say about the relationship between music, the brain, and physical movement. But there’s a limit to how far that kind of analysis can go on its own. What it often misses is what the experience actually feels like in real time—when the body is under strain, when attention shifts, and when music stops being something in the background and becomes part of the action itself. So instead of trying to force one clean conclusion, this collection of stories share common themes of motivational impact in music and performance. What follows is a series of case studies drawn from real moments—running, lifting, competing—where the interaction between music and motivation becomes especially clear. Each one starts with a specific situation and then asks a simple question: what does this suggest about how music and the body are working together? The goal is not to prove a single argument in each case, but to trace patterns, to notice what changes, and to see what kinds of relationships start to emerge. Taken together, these examples treat music not as a fixed object we passively hear, but as something that is shaped by—and in turn shapes—the will of the body.
The Cold Tub
A useful contrast to the running playlists emerges in a recovery setting, where my teammate and I regularly alternate between cold and hot tubs to facilitate full-body recovery. The cold tub, in particular, presents an immediate and intense sensory challenge. The first minute is marked by sharp, localized pain that demands conscious endurance; it becomes less a physical limitation and more a test of will. Athletes are required to wear protective foot pads to prevent frostbite, which underscores the extremity of the environment. This is followed by immersion in the hot tub, which restores circulation and provides relief. While the physiological benefits of this contrast therapy are well established, the experience itself remains acutely uncomfortable, especially in its initial phase.
Within this context, music functions as a cognitive and affective intervention rather than a tool for physical synchronization. My teammate and I will sometimes sit in silence, which tends to intensify the perception of pain and elongate the subjective experience of time. However, when we introduce music—specifically songs such as “Off the Wall” by Michael Jackson or “Carla’s Song” by Harry Styles—the perceptual experience shifts significantly. Notably, these songs differ substantially in tempo and style, suggesting that rhythmic alignment is not the primary mechanism at work. Instead, their effectiveness appears to derive from familiarity and emotional resonance. Because we have repeated exposure to these songs and identify with their lyrical and tonal qualities, they capture attention more fully than unfamiliar or impersonal music.
This attentional shift has measurable phenomenological consequences. As engagement with the music increases, awareness of the physical discomfort correspondingly decreases, and the passage of time appears to accelerate. The song effectively becomes a temporal unit, restructuring how the duration of the cold exposure is perceived. Rather than enduring an abstract interval of time, the experience is segmented by musical progression (e.g., verses, choruses), which provides cognitive landmarks. This reinforces a broader claim emerging from the project: the efficacy of music in physically demanding or uncomfortable contexts is less dependent on objective features such as tempo or genre, and more dependent on the listener’s subjective relationship to the music.
The Clap
At a track meet, right before a long jumper starts their approach, you’ll hear it—the clap. It starts slow, almost tentative, and then builds into a steady beat. The crowd picks it up, matching the rhythm as the jumper steps onto the runway. And then they go. Every stride falls into that tempo, each step sharper than the last, until it all compresses into that final explosive takeoff. It doesn’t feel random—it feels timed, almost like the jump was already embedded in the rhythm before it even happened. The clap isn’t just background noise. It’s not hype for the sake of hype. It actually structures the run-up. It gives the jumper something external to lock into, something that stabilizes their steps so they can hit the board with precision and power. So what does this say about rhythm, movement, and performance? It suggests that peak physical performance isn’t just internal—it’s relational. The body doesn’t generate rhythm entirely on its own; it syncs to something outside of it. And in doing so, it becomes more consistent, more controlled, and ultimately more explosive. The rhythm almost carries part of the cognitive load—so instead of overthinking each step, the athlete can trust the beat and channel everything into the jump. In that sense, this isn’t that different from running with music. The beat—whether it’s coming from headphones or a crowd—doesn’t just accompany movement, it organizes it. And when movement is organized, performance and perception both shift. The body becomes less scattered and more intentional, and what you’re experiencing—whether it’s a jump or a run—starts to feel like it belongs to the rhythm itself.
The Silent Lift
One day at lift, one of my teammates left the squat rack completely unorganized, and because of that our coach got in trouble. So the next session, we paid for it—no music. The whole lift was silent. Immediately the energy dropped. On Olympic lifts, we’re tracked by a system that measures bar speed, and you have to hit a certain velocity to stay “in the green” and move up in weight. That day, almost everyone was stuck in the red. The weights didn’t move the same. They felt heavier, slower, like something was off even though nothing physical had changed.
It went beyond effecting the “strength;” it was everything around us. Without music, we weren’t yelling for each other the same way. Normally, the noise gives you cover—you can scream, hype someone up, let energy build without thinking about it. In silence, every sound felt exposed. The only thing you heard was the clank of bars hitting the rack or dropping after a clean. It made the whole room feel tense, almost restrained. So why did the absence of music affect not just how we felt, but how we actually performed? I believe it suggests that music isn’t just motivation—it’s structure for collective energy. It creates a kind of shared environment where effort feels natural, where expression (like yelling or hyping each other up) isn’t awkward but expected. Without it, the social and psychological side of performance collapses a bit. People hesitate more, move less explosively, and lose that rhythm that usually carries them through a lift. In that sense, music doesn’t just sit on top of performance—it helps produce the conditions that make high-level performance possible. So just like in running or jumping, the music isn’t separate from the movement. It shapes the pace, the confidence, even the willingness to push. When it’s gone, you don’t just notice the silence—you feel the absence of something that was quietly organizing everything.