A Life in Song: Why I Owe Everything to the Art of Music

What would your life be like without music?

Sometimes I wonder this to myself. After all, I’ve built my entire life on this weird-ass human phenomena of taking noise and making it pretty.

Like, I don’t think music has ever not been a part of my life. I remember being a small child and spinning around humming little tunes I made up. I didn’t have any means of writing them down or recording them, but that was the beginning of what would become a lifelong love of songwriting.

When I was eight, my parents bought me a guitar. Two years later, I started lessons. I’d already been kicked out of ballet, tap, gymnastics, and swimming thanks to then-undiagnosed ADHD, but music lessons were different. Not only could I literally not get kicked out of one-on-one lessons, I actually enjoyed them enough to pay attention. I studied in a basement with this college kid named Eric, who my mom thought was hot. Over the next few years, I’d learn the basics of music theory, initially against my will.

“You’re going to need this stuff if you ever want to study music in college,” Eric told me.

“Nah, I want to be a doctor,” I probably said.

Sure enough, I went on to graduate high school, but not before selling my soul to the music department. I participated in nearly every ensemble — in fact, I was in almost all the acts in the annual dinner theatre (which involved a lot of costume changes). Outside of school, I volunteered to play in the church band, which gave me a sense of confidence I never had before. I was regularly performing with and learning from players who were far better than I could imagine being, and as I grew as a musician, I found myself as a person.

When it came time to register for classes, I went for pre-med, but upon arriving home after college orientation, my mom and dad overheard me practicing guitar.

“You’re wasting your talents,” they said, as they became the first parents in the history of human civilization to convince their child to pursue music instead of medicine.

So I immediately switched my major to music, and things just sort of fell into place.

I am where I am now, about to start an internship in music therapy and on the cusp of something great with my band, because of my relationship with music. It’s given me so much confidence with other people — growing up autistic, I had a hard time socializing and communicating. But music helped me to find my voice and make friends, some of whom I now consider family. It’s enriched my life in such a profound way, I’m struggling to think of how my life would be different without it. It’s difficult to even imagine. I’d likely be a lonely reluctant cardiologist with no passion for life.

Music is such a blessing. It connects us in ways nothing else can, and I’m so thankful I get to partake in it as a musician.

Dear Cadence, Part Fifteen: Find Your Chosen Family

This is the latest installment in my memoir project, written as a series of letters to my future daughter. Here are the previous entries: Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven, Part Eight, Part Nine, Part Ten, Part Eleven, Part Twelve, Part Thirteen, and Part Fourteen

Ever since I was little, I wanted to be in a band.

Sounds familiar, right?

After the disaster that was Dethklok, I wasn’t sure I even wanted a band ever again. It didn’t seem worth it to make music with other people if they were just going to hurt me. I was content to just do things alone from now on, if I was even going to keep making music for myself at all. I was back in the music therapy program, and that was enough, right? But deep down inside, I knew I needed more. I kept writing songs and still had that lifelong itch to be a performer. I loved being onstage, and a tiny part of me wished I could share that with someone else.

I met Wally through my new church, a rare queer-affirming church I found in my new old stomping grounds of Ann Arbor, the larger college town that neighbored my smaller college town of Ypsilanti. Wally was an older guy, a little younger than your grandpa was but definitely still old enough to be my dad. He was a quirky fellow with a wife and eight kids and even more keyboards. He was basically a straighter, slightly less flamboyant Elton John who played in a band called Unkle Laylee’s Moonshine All-Stars Band with an old stoner dude named Gray and his aptly named son, Grayson. And when I came to this new church, he took me under his wing and promptly added me to the lineup. I was now Wally’s unofficial bonus daughter/bandmate, but Wally had an official daughter who secretly wished she was in a band as well.

Enter Hailey.

Hailey was a tiny blonde cheerleader who hid a knack for songwriting that rivaled my own. During one practice, she came down and showed us one of her originals, which gave Wally an idea. Unkle Laylee wasn’t really his vibe, and it wasn’t mine either, so we started our own project right then and there. Our little trio would form the basis of a brand new creation. We couldn’t agree on a name, so we stole the name of my former solo project, Wake Up Jamie, which came from a misheard lyric from an old song no one remembers.

At first, we frequented local bars and coffee shops, playing to anyone who’d listen. Those were some of the most memorable shows I’d ever play, even if they seemed small and insignificant in the moment. Every weekend or so, we’d meet up and plan our next moves, the three of us. And as our repertoire grew, we realized the project was getting to be too big for only three of us. Wally moved to a position of manager and eventually phased himself out in preparation for a move out-of-state, while we brought on board three new members.

The first was Jerry, an old collaborator of mine I knew from my time in the local music scene. We’d played briefly together in a band called Fate’s Redemption, which I’d left in order to join Dethklok (bad idea). But despite my betrayal, we remained friends, and when I mentioned needing a drummer for the revised Wake Up Jamie, he jumped on the opportunity. The second was an old friend named Chris, a guitarist who I met in music school who could play circles around me. Originally, he was supposed to play bass, but we realized we were squandering his skills as a guitar player by keeping him on bass.

Now Pippa was a cute girl who was active in the music scene and had been following Wake Up Jamie for a minute. We met at a gig and drunkenly made out. Word got out that she was learning bass, so I swept her up and taught her the songs. Was it originally an attempt to get to know her better because I had a massive crush on her? Possibly. But even after our short-lived romantic relationship ended, I found I very much enjoyed her company as a friend, and now as a bandmate.

Wake Up Jamie had reached its final form — me, Hailey, Jerry, Chris, and Pippa.

The band itself went on to play some of the biggest shows in Michigan — Arts, Beats, and Eats, Detroit Pride, and even a radio show. As of writing, we haven’t “made it” in the sense that we can make a living off our music, but that doesn’t matter to me. Wake Up Jamie has never been about getting rich or famous. The band is my honorary family, the people I trust with my life.

I still remember when one of the members had an emotional breakdown at practice, and we all halted our activities to talk them down and make sure they were okay. We then sat outside during the reminder of practice just sharing our mental health struggles. It was a difficult conversation, but I felt so comfortable sharing my heart with these people, and it was such a warm feeling to know they trusted me enough to share their hearts as well. It was like night and day compared to Dethklok, who was just as mentally ill as a group but chose to address their problems with vitriol and drama. Wake Up Jamie all legitimately care for one another, and I feel like that comes through in our music.

Blood family is important, but your found family is just as sacred. I hope and pray you find your people someday.

When You Can No Longer Turn a Blind Eye to Hate

Sometimes, I get the no-reason sads. Usually, the logical side of me (the part I’d like to imagine is bigger) will chalk it up to a chemical imbalance., just some muddled up brain slush not doing its job. This most recent sad, I could have easily brushed off as me not having my Wellbutrin for the last few weeks. But there was something more to this particular sad, and I could feel it.

The sad was not a typical no-reason sad. It was a scared sad, and it came with a realization.

I’m going to be living my entire life in fear for the women I love more than anything in this world.

I fear for my wife, who is black in a world that turns a blind eye toward violence against people of color. I fear for my girlfriend, who is transgender in a world that tells trans women to kill themselves, if the world doesn’t murder them first. I have so many fears about my future family and whether or not we’ll be safe in this country I love, the country I’ve called home my entire life.

I want to start a family with my two favorite people so badly, but I can’t shake this fear that something will go horribly wrong. Growing up, I never felt that kind of existential fear. I was a white, straight-and-cisgender-passing Christian. I never had to worry about systemic oppression or the ignorant prejudices of other people. I was able to exist peacefully and apolitically. But you can’t exist apolitically in a society that vilifies your loved ones and actively seeks to harm them. I used to be able to overlook oppression, but now I see racism and homophobia and transphobia in the world and it’s fucking personal.

My mom once told me that my writing has the power to change the world, and I hope it does. This was a hard post to write, but it’s so important to put out there. I want to live in a world that allows my future daughter to grow up without fear, without the nagging feeling that someone’s going to hurt her moms. No one should have to bear this kind of anxiety, ever, and I pray someday we’ll live in a society that lets us simply exist.

I don’t think that’s too much to ask.

I’m Not Ready

Earlier this week, I made a pilgrimage to Fort Wayne, Indiana for my internship interview, and who would I be if I visited my girlfriend’s home state if I didn’t visit my girlfriend at some point?

I’m the “long distance lesbians” stereotype meets the “four hours is nothing to Midwesterners” stereotype.

The drive from Fort Wayne to South Bend isn’t too bad, mostly passing through the endless open fields the Midwest is known for and a few odd cities. But one thing I noticed fairly often while traversing Indiana (aside from corn) was the presence of billboards like these:

I’ve been a Christian most of my life, and although I’m not much in the way of a traditional one, I believe the core tenets, including the whole “forgiveness” thing. I know the ubiquitous verse — “So God so loved the world” and all that. I know everything I could possibly ever do wrong in this lifetime has already been forgiven. I’ve never been afraid of Judgment Day, whatever that will look like.

So why am I still scared of dying?

I think about it more than I’d like to admit. It’s a dark cloud looming over my brightest days, a little nagging fear surrounding the fact that my days are numbered. I can’t wrap my mind around the fact that one day, I’ll just cease to exist, and I’ll never have the chance to do anything else. All my dreams will have remained just that — dreams. All unfulfilled, all forgotten.

There’s so much left I want to do in this life, so much so that it’s overwhelming at times. I want to be a music therapist. I want to be a songwriter. I want to be a mom. I want to be a professor. I want to publish my stories. I want to live in a little house by a lake. And it sucks to think I might not be able to get to do everything I want to do. I only have, what, 80 years or so if I’m lucky? And I’ve spent 30 of them being too mentally ill to do much of anything. Logically I know I’ve accomplished a lot in the past three decades, but I’m always scared I’m running out of time to finish everything I want to do.

So no, I’m not ready to meet Jesus.

Maybe it is a sign I need to lean more into my faith, I don’t know. God knows everything that’s ever happened and ever will happen, and His plans are greater than my own. But as much as this should be a comfort to me, it’s almost worse to acknowledge that everything is ultimately out of my hands. My future is already decided for me, and what if it’s not a future I’d want for myself? What if I’m doomed to be a pharmacy technician for the rest of my life?

I guess I need to accept that I don’t have all the answers, and I never will this side of Heaven. I just wish I could live in the moment and not worry about these things so much.

On Taking Chances: A Brief Life Update

Let’s start this post with a prompt:

What are you doing this evening?

I know, I know. It’s rare that I publish two blog posts within the same day, but I just so happened to receive this writing prompt on the eve of what is hopefully the start of something grand.

This evening, I’ll be packing my things for a adventure, and — God willing — will soon be packing my things for an even bigger adventure.

If you’ve been following my blog for a while, you’ll know I’ve been struggling with finding a music therapy internship. I’d made the mistake of betting all I had on an internship with an organization in a neighboring town. It wasn’t exactly my dream internship, but it was a. local and b. not hospice. Unfortunately, I was passed over, which put a massive damper on my dreams of ever becoming a music therapist. Desperate, I applied to a few more internships, mostly nearby hospices. But I secretly wanted something closer to what I imagine doing for a living, something with diverse clientele with many different needs.

A professor recommended a place in Fort Wayne, Indiana, which is not where I wanted to end up, but the internship itself was exactly what I was looking for. The clients are incredibly varied, the practice uses a wide array of methods, and it’s a private practice, meaning I’ll hopefully get to about how to start and manage my own someday. Although the location was less than ideal, I applied and scored a virtual interview. To my surprise, I received an invite for an in-person interview and observation. The owner of the practice even said because I’d been invited, I was in high consideration for the position.

Which leaves me where I am now, doing cartwheels in my head.

Mostly because I can’t do cartwheels in real life.

I leave for the in-person interview tomorrow. I plan to scope out the area while I’m there, since I’ll be relocating for the duration of the internship. My wife is hesitant but supportive, and she’s willing to make the move with me should I get this opportunity. We’ll likely be staying in an extended-stay hotel for the extent of the internship, and we won’t be able to work steady jobs, so we’ll have to rely on savings and my stipend to live. I’ll have to find another doctor and pharmacy for my Adderall as well, which will be a challenge in and of itself. It’ll be hard work, making this happen, but I’m willing to jump in and take this risk.

As tempted as I was to be bitter about not getting my first choice of internship, I have a gut feeling this one will be even better. I needed a push out of the nest of my own contentment, even I’m kicking and screaming the entire way down. Life is about being uncomfortable sometimes — no true adventure comes without discomfort. I could sit idly by in my cozy little corner of The Mitten waiting for opportunity to find me, or I can run out into the world (well, into Indiana) and take a chance for once in my life.

I’m ready to take that leap.

Dear Cadence, Part Fourteen: Marry Your Best Friend

Fun fact! When your Mama Crass first met me, she hated me. Like, a lot.

We met because she was dating another girl in the program. I latched onto them while they were walking to grab some books, since I too needed books and had no sense of self-awareness. I figured it was college, I was hot now and everyone wanted to hang out with me anyways, and they could use the company, right? Had I been more self-aware, I would have noticed how your mother’s eyes were daggers the entire walk there and back.

I didn’t see her much freshman year, after I had invited myself on her and her girlfriend’s excursion to the bookstore. The next time we actually talked was the Best Day Ever.

I was outside in the quaint courtyard between our two dorms, playing harp like a little angel, when Mama Crass passed me on the way to her room. She was having a terrible day, probably the worst day ever. But I recognized her from the bookstore trip and knew she worked at the newspaper as well, so I interrupted my playing to yell out a “hi!” And to my surprise, she came over and talked to me. I guess she figured her day couldn’t get any worse, so might as well see what the weirdo with the harp had to say.

“There’s a festival thing over at the Student Center,” I said. “Wanna check it out?”

And her saying yes to my spontaneous adventure was the catalyst for many, many years of friendship. We were inseparable from that evening forward. I’d never had a best friend I clicked with like her. She was my other half, to the point where people became concerned if one of us was somewhere without the other. Me, her, and eventually your aunt Mel (who was a nerdy meerkat of a human and not the badass confident woman you know now) became something of a power trio. We went on vacations together, stayed up late studying (and smoking a certain herb) together, we even ran the newspaper together. We had our inside jokes and knowing glances and for the first time ever, I felt completely, wholeheartedly loved by someone who wasn’t my parents.

One night, Mel was asleep next to us. I felt your mom brush her hand against my thigh. Normally, I wouldn’t do this kind of thing, not the good little Christian girl who’d had the whole “homosexuality is evil” thing hammered into her brain from a young age. But something came over me that night. I figured girls experiment in college all the time. When in Rome, do gay shit, right? I’ll spare you the details, but everything changed from then on. In all but name, Mama Crass was my girlfriend. I’d just never admit it.

(And yes, that happened next to Aunt Mel. No, she hasn’t let us live it down.)

I had my boyfriends, but none of them stuck, and she was there the whole time, trying to figure out what my confused bisexual ass was thinking. I even got married, and she was the maid of honor, naturally. She didn’t look all that maidenly at the wedding — she was really leaning into the more butch look at the time, with her cropped hair and suit and tie. There exist pictures of us at this wedding, and you’ll probably flip if I ever show them to you. I probably won’t, because I looked equally awful at the time, having cut all my hair off in an attempt to pull off a flapper bob. But I digress. This was a bad time for both of us, as evidenced by the questionable haircuts.

At some point when I was married to Josh, I came to this striking realization — whenever I was hanging out with him, why did I wish I was hanging out with her instead? And that was the moment I knew this marriage wasn’t going to work. I mentioned earlier that I moved out to Ypsilanti to be closer to my school and job, but I didn’t mention all the BS that came with that.

At the time, all I could afford was a room in these shitty apartments where someone got murdered almost yearly. The apartment complex operated similarly to a dorm, where tenants were matched with each other based on interests and roomed together. Unfortunately, the system was not foolproof, and I got stuck with a pair of evil lesbians (pro tip: not all queer folks are cool, sadly). They didn’t like me or my cat, Krubby, so they tried to get rid of us the only way they knew how — by calling animal control.

On Christmas Eve.

To get Krubby taken away.

(I told you they were evil.)

Needless to say, the animal control worker came in, inspected the apartment, and saw no reason to take Krubby. But I was furious. In fact, I’d never been more furious. And so was your mom. So much so that she left the safety of her parents’ house, where she’d taken refuge after graduation, and came to stay with me and Krubby until we could break the lease and leave.

And only then did I realize what I was missing. Why I didn’t want a family with Josh. It was your mother all along. I saw how loving and maternal and warm and protective she was with Krubby, and I knew she was the one I wanted to mother my children someday.

It wasn’t easy — despite having come out as pansexual, I’d never actually dated a woman before, so the social transition to outwardly queer was uncomfortable at times. Some members of my own family have distanced themselves from me. But the ones who matter have stuck around. My dad called me up in this serious tone shortly after getting together with your mother officially, saying he needed to talk to us about something important. So he took us to a Coney Island and sat us down and basically said “Fuck what the rest of the family says, I love and support you no matter what.” And my mom, after years of denying the fact that I was probably some kind of gay, came to terms with it. “Now I get two daughters,” she said.

We married in a tiny ceremony with both my parents present by the Detroit River on Valentine’s Day. I was never really a romantic, at least not until I met your other mom, but standing there in our casual but pretty dresses on that windy winter’s day, I felt like I finally believed in true love. I felt like happy ever afters not only really existed, but I could have one. I had a love story, a truly marvelous, one-of-a-kind love story, and it was hers and mine.

Marriage is a beautiful thing, and it’s even more beautiful when the person you marry is your best friend. It’s not all rainbows and roses, but when you’re fighting side-by-side with your favorite person, everything seems to come together. I pray you find someone (or multiple someones) who make you feel the way your Mama Crass makes me feel, because the people you spend your life with make everything worth it.

My Life as a “Should’ve Been”

Everyone’s familiar with the term “has-been.” It’s a label we give one-hit wonders and washed-up celebs. But the thing about has-beens is that they have at least, well, been. There are so many more people out there who never will reach those heights at all, who had potential and squandered it somehow. I think those are the cases that fascinate me even more. Maybe that’s because I relate.

Are you holding a grudge? About?

I think my biggest grudge is against myself for not going all-in as a musician when I was younger. I feel like I could have actually taken my music somewhere had I started sooner, had I thrown my entire existence into it. It’s hard to accept that it may be too late. There are artists half my age who are making it in the business now. Thirty is grandma-age by industry standards.

It’s not entirely my fault that I didn’t devote myself fully to the dream. I think back to my struggles with mental health, which were debilitatingly severe in my teens and twenties, to the point where I could barely keep up in school and work. Much of the music industry, now and back then, happened on the internet, which I was scared of using for many years. And who could blame me? There are a lot of things to be afraid of on the world wide web.

I had a presence on YouTube, but I remember being nearly paralyzed every time I went to post a new song. I couldn’t help but fear what kind of reactions I would get. I remember some of the mean comments I’d receive about my appearance and worse, my musical abilities. Even in a sea of positive comments, it was the negative ones that haunted me and made me not want to share my music anymore. I had a lot of anxiety about putting myself out there, and I’m beating myself up for it to this day.

I feel like I could have been something greater. I could have been the next Taylor Swift, or even Christina Grimmie (RIP), had I actually kept an online presence back then. Now I feel it’s too late. In a post-TikTok world, I don’t even know where to begin when it comes to sharing my music. I feel like everything I do will be hilariously irrelevant now that I’m past the peak age for “making it.”

I wish I could go back and tell younger me not to be scared of internet assholes. People are gonna suck, and there’s nothing you can do about that except shine in spite of everything. I wish I hadn’t hidden myself away in the darkest corners because of my anxiety. I feel like a massive “should’ve been,” and it sucks to think about. Maybe it just wasn’t meant to be, and I need to accept that. But a tiny part of me still wonders what could have been had I just put myself out there more.

I guess I’ll never know.

Dear Cadence, Part Thirteen: Stand Up For What You Believe In

While I was still married to Josh, the church we attended was a huge part of our daily lives. We were so immersed in the life of that church, we didn’t do much outside of it. I cut out most of my friends who didn’t attend, not intentionally for what it’s worth, but I felt I didn’t relate to those friends anymore. I even stopped talking to your mom as much, despite her being my best friend. She never as much as saw the inside of our condo.

But the church wasn’t perfect. I knew about its political leanings before I jumped back in, having been Facebook friends with many of its attendees. Many were diehard conservatives who’d eventually drink the Trump Kool-aid, some even progressing to QAnon conspiracies and the like. And most mourned the day gay marriage was legalized, which rubbed me the wrong way. But Jesus was bigger than petty politics, right? He didn’t care if I voted for Bernie Sanders, even if the pastor’s kid gave me the side-eye for it. This church was where I felt the most connected to Him, and that was what mattered most, I thought.

There was a small collective of progressive folks, mostly other musicians in the worship team. After playing, we’d sit in the break room and eat our breakfast, discussing whatever off-color joke about “those libruls” was said during service that morning. We were renegades in the sense that we didn’t adhere to absolutely everything the pastor taught, which was scandalous for a church that emphasized that their way was the “right” way and no other path was valid. We did wild things like have gay friends and believe in universal healthcare. Josh was a fringe part of this group — I think he had trouble letting go of the teachings of his family, which were even more reactionary than that of the church, if that can be believed. At least the church played rock music.

But for the most part, there wasn’t any tension between us and the rest of the church. We were able to coexist peacefully. In fact, politics and social issues were seldom brought up. There’s an insidious kind of evangelical church that preaches acceptance for all, that puts on a pair of hipster skinny jeans and plays guitar and pretends to be young and relevant, but as soon as you’re comfortable within the culture of the congregation, smacks you over the head with the classic line —“love the sinner, hate the sin.” Which is almost always directed at queer folks, mind you. But as long as no one brought up gay and trans rights, it was never addressed.

Until one Saturday evening service, that is.

I still remember the burn of the stage lights beating down on my face, the way my guitar felt in my hands, and the sound of the pastor’s voice as he announced it.

A conversion therapy class for teenage girls.

I thought I was going to be sick. I should have stormed off the stage. I should have made a scene. I should have stood up and told him, in front of the entire congregation, that what he was doing was fucked up. But I didn’t. I stood there like a good little sheep and did jack shit about it. But I knew the storm was coming.

And as expected, word got out that my church was hosting such a class. And people were rightfully furious. Like, “protesting in front of the church” furious. Here I was caught between these two worlds, the church I’d dedicated my life to serving and what I knew in my heart was right. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t think these people I was serving alongside were evil, but they were doing something that was unequivocally evil. Love the sinner, hate the sin, as they always said, right? But I wanted to make a stand somehow. I had to show these girls I was on their side. That I was one of them.

So I came out. Publicly. For the first time ever.

Reactions were mixed. Most people weren’t surprised to hear I was pansexual — I’d already had a pretty homoerotic relationship with your mom. There was some pushback from the church elders, and the pastor cornered me to tell me how I was so wrong. I didn’t care. The blatant homophobia of the church should have pushed me further into the closet, but instead, it emboldened me to live more authentically.

I stayed at that church for a few more weeks, praying I could change it from the inside, but you gotta know when you’re fighting a losing battle. These people were stuck in their ways. As much as I hated to admit it, as much as I hoped their so-called love of Christ would soften their hearts, there was no saving them. So I left. I found a church out where I worked that accepted me — all of me. Most of the other secret progressives trickled out as well, finding affirming churches or abandoning religion altogether. I couldn’t blame them, for if my faith was any weaker than it was, I probably would have done the same. But I stayed strong in my belief that there is a God, and that He loves wildly, without conditions, and without prejudice.

In a weird way, I’m glad my old church showed its true colors the way it did, because it gave me the push I needed to stop lying to myself and everyone else about my sexuality. Had things continued the way they were, I would have never left, and I would have never come out, and I would have never married your mom or fallen in love with Olivia (I’m not sure what parental title she has yet, but she likely helped me create you, which is really cool!). I am where I am now because I took a stand. My only regret is not walking off that damn stage when I had a chance. I hope when you’re faced with prejudice, you’ll be even stronger than I was. Walk off the stage. Throw a fit. Make a scene. Let the world know that shit doesn’t fly. I pray you have courage where I didn’t.

Sunday Morning Coffee: You’re More Important Than a Bird

This weekend has been a test for me. I bought two nights at a hotel in South Bend, IN so I could go with my girlfriend to a music festival…and then my tires blew out. Damn.

I’m in this picture and I don’t like it.

Needless to say, my bank account is around -$187 right now, and I couldn’t get a refund on the hotel, so I’m currently in another state with absolutely no money to my name.

But I’m not as worried as I should be. Because I know God will provide a way for me, one way or another. He always has and He will again.

There’s a verse I love about how God will provide in times of trouble:

“Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothes? Look at the birds of the air: They do not sow or reap or gather into barns—and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life?”
Luke 12:25-27

He makes sure the birds are provided for, and He loves us even more than them! We’re His kids, and what a good Father we have! Even when times get rough, I fully believe things will come together in the end. They always have before, and they will again.

Don’t worry yourself sick, but trust that you’re in good hands.

Dear Cadence, Part Twelve: Don’t Rush Growing Up

By 2016 I was still reeling from the band breakup, Jacob Liepshutz breaking my heart again, and the crushing weight of not immediately becoming a roaring success of a writer after graduation, as I had planned, among a multitude of other things that were heavy on my mind. I fled to Florida for a few months, then reconvened back in Michigan, where I decided I needed something different.

I needed Jesus.

I figured where better to find Him than at the church of my youth? So I went back to the church I’d attended as a teenager and weaseled my way into the young adult group. And that’s where I met Josh.

Josh was a scrawny kid no taller than me, with large brown eyes and a big nose that suited his face surprisingly well. He had longish hair that brushed his shoulders and dressed in skinny jeans and band tees like I liked on a man at the time. We’d known each other in high school, but we became close friends after I joined the worship team, where he played bass. We gravitate toward each other because we were the odd ones out — everyone on the team was stereotypically attractive and “cool,” and we were kind of the dweebs of the group.

I quickly learned that Josh had never had a girlfriend before, and something about that was oddly refreshing to me. A man with no baggage. No expectations. I was growing disillusioned with the dating scene, and Josh was a breath of fresh air. So when he meekly asked me to be his girlfriend, I had to accept.

Dating Josh was a whole different world. You see, his family was very strict and conservative, something I was not used to. They prayed before meals and didn’t listen to rock music and voted Republican because they were against abortion. Josh was a little less uppity, but he was a virgin and was waiting until marriage. I couldn’t live with him or even sleep in the same bed until we were married. It was charming at first, but it got grating quickly. I really did like Josh, a lot, but I wanted an adult relationship with him. I was sick of dating like a teenager while I was well into my 20s. So when he asked me to marry him a mere six months into our relationship, I said yes.

The wedding itself was far from my dream wedding. It was rushed, just like everything else in the relationship. I hastily chose decor and cakes and all that, and my dress was a pastry-shaped hand-me-down from Josh’s sister, who was way too skinny for it to fit her well. The reception was less than ideal — I couldn’t even dance at my own party because we held it at Josh’s family’s church, and they were the villains from Footloose and prohibited such sinful acts. So I bawled my eyes out and definitely came off as a bridezilla.

(I think I was justified.)

We bought a little condo in my hometown, a relatively nice two-story home with wood paneling like I liked, and plenty of storage space. That’s when I fell into a nice little routine. Go to work at the pharmacy I’d found a job at, maybe attend a church event, come home and clean (usually while sneaking a bottle of wine that Josh didn’t approve of), and go to bed, only to do it all again the next day.

I put on my shiniest, happiest face, like I was actually enjoying the life I’d made for myself, but I wasn’t actually happy. Even the kitten Josh bought me didn’t bring me enough joy to justify my sad existence. Every day I’d go to work and drive across the Detroit River, and every day I’d be half-tempted to drive my car off the damn bridge. It wasn’t anything Josh was doing wrong, to be fair. It was me. The problem was always me. I was making myself miserable by forcing myself into a box I didn’t feel comfortable in. I wasn’t a good little church wife, and I knew it.

I felt like I was stagnating, so I fought my depression the only way I knew how — by throwing myself into academics. I signed up for music therapy classes for the second time. What was the other option, have a baby? All my friends were getting married and making babies, but I couldn’t see myself having a family with Josh. As much as I loved him, I didn’t like him like that. And I finally admitted that to myself one day while I was walking across campus. I called my mom, who encouraged me to call my brother, who immediately swept me up and took me for a ride, just to talk.

Your Uncle Jason is not a saint. We don’t even talk any more. But I have to credit him for saving my life that day, because he’s the one who talked me down from throwing myself into that river.

I didn’t have a plan. I wasn’t even sure how people get divorced. But I wrote a letter to Josh, a painful one that hurt me to write. I knew I’d made a mistake in rushing into marriage with him, though. I left it for him, and went to stay with my parents for the night.

The divorce process was somber, as expected, and way more drawn out than it should have been. He chased me down and tried his hardest to win me back, which only made things hurt more in the long run, both for him and for me. He even recorded a CD full of him playing songs for me, a desperate serenade in hopes I’d stop the process and come back to him. But my heart was never in the marriage in the first place. I was in a hurry to grow up and have that adult relationship I wanted, and he happened to be in the crosshairs of my own recklessness.

Finally, the dust settled and I moved out to Ypsilanti to be closer to my school and job. I’d thankfully started working in Ann Arbor a little bit before everything went down. I think I started planning my escape long before I consciously decided to divorce Josh. My heart wasn’t with Josh, or in that church, or in my hometown. I left my heart behind in the music therapy program at Eastern, and that’s where I needed to be.

I guess the moral of this story is to not be in such a hurry to grow up. When you try to rush things, you hurt people and lose sight of what you really want out of life. I regret marrying Josh, not because I never loved him, but because I did love him, and I hated having to hurt him the way I did. I’m big enough to admit I was the bad guy, and he didn’t deserve what I did to him. But I had to do what was right for me. You only live one time, and life’s too short to be stuck somewhere you don’t truly want to be.

As of writing, I never did get that dream wedding to someone I actually want to be with forever, but I’m praying that changes. And if that time ever comes, I’m going to dance my damn heart out.