Dear Cadence, Part Seventeen: Write This Down

This is the final 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, Part Fourteen, Part Fifteen, and Part Sixteen

I’ve been a writer my entire life. It’s almost as entwined with my being as music is. I love stories, and I love telling stories. The story you just read is my story, so far at least. God willing, I’ll have another 70 years on this giant rock we call home. I still want to see you grow up, make a living for yourself, perhaps even have children of your own, should that be in the cards for you.

Nothing lasts forever, which is a hard truth that I’m struggling with as I write these words. Buildings become decrepit, objects get lost, people change and evolve and eventually die, and there’s nothing you can do about it. We are as impermanent as the leaves of an autumn tree. But the things we create outlive us.

I started this project as a way to document my time here. I may be just another woman amongst billions of other people with their own interesting lives, but there will never, ever be another me. And there will never be another you, either.

Isn’t it fascinating to realize that every single person ever has their own story? There are eight billion intersecting storylines happening as I write this, eight billion unique lives that will never happen again. And that’s not counting the billions upon billions of people who have already come and gone. Maybe they left a legacy, or perhaps they were forgotten to time. It’s the latter that fascinates me most, more than the famous folks who went on to become legends. It’s the people whose stories will never be known, whose names were lost to history. It makes me sad to think about too long, if I’m honest.

Cadence, if you do nothing else with your time here, I want you to write. All the time. About everything. It doesn’t have to be grammatically perfect or even presentable. Just write down your life and experiences, the same as I’ve written mine for you. Someday, if you have kids, they’ll want to know who you were and where they came from. And even if you don’t have kids, you’ll come back to your diary or journal someday and remember how beautiful life was. Moments are as fleeting as existence itself. One day, you’ll be old and gray, but the memories you’ve made will be forever preserved through your journals.

I want to leave you with this. Leave a legacy. Don’t be content to be forgotten to time. Live without abandon, and leave something to be remembered by. Do great things, and be exceptional to everyone you meet. And always, always lead with love. We will all die, but love lives on forever. I know I’ve loved you long before you were ever born, and I’ll love you long after I’m gone.

Wherever you go in this life, I’ll be with you always.

Dear Cadence, Part Sixteen: Love is Infinite

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, Part Fourteen, and Part Fifteen

When your mother and I officially got together, we came to an agreement — we’d be free to date other people as well. Part of it was due to your mother’s asexuality — there were certain things she couldn’t give me that I needed in a relationship, and I didn’t want to ever pressure her or make her feel uncomfortable by making her do physical things with me that she didn’t want to. But I never had any desire to date around or meet anyone else. I was content to be a one-woman woman.

That changed when I met Olivia.

When I first saw her at a Valentine’s Day art show, she was wearing a tight little skirt and a mess of short dark blonde curls. She was playing electronic music behind her then-friend’s poetry. She had this air about her, graceful and effortless, and I knew I had to get to know her. We ended up in the kissing booth that had been set up, trading life stories between smooches, and she told me about her life, how she was struggling with her gender identity and how to tell her parents, and how she’d been very ill until recently, putting a strain on her relationship with her ex. I listened as if she was telling me the secrets of the universe, enthralled at her every word. When we parted, we traded information, promising to meet somewhere between my home in Michigan and hers in Indiana someday.

About a month later, someday happened. I booked a hotel halfway between Ypsilanti and South Bend, in a town called Kalamazoo. It was reckless and unlike anything I’d ever done before, but something felt so right about this perfect stranger. I wanted to know more about her. I wanted to know everything about her. I kept trying to tell myself this was just a fling, just a way for me to blow off steam in a way I couldn’t with your mother, but I knew deep down in my heart that something else was happening.

Another month later, we met for a third time at an indie music festival in East Lansing. At some band’s show in some random person’s backyard, we drifted off together in a hammock, tangled up in each other’s arms. It was in that moment I think we both realized what this was.

It was love.

We continued to meet every month or so, sometimes in Michigan, sometimes in Indiana. I met her friends and family, and she met mine. She even met your mom, and while your mom was slightly overwhelmed by her exuberance, she gave us her blessing.

I still remember the afternoon we took a boat out on the lake together. We held each other close on the tiny inflatable vessel and daydreamed about the future, uncertain as it seemed at the time, and you came up! She mentioned that before she transitioned, she took steps to ensure she’d be able to have kids someday, and she said she wanted them with me. I told her about you, and how badly I wanted to have you one day. We promised each other that when the time was right, we’d bring you into this world together. It wouldn’t be easy, raising a child with this unique arrangement, but we’d be damned if we didn’t try.

I know this love is not conventional, but I’ve never been one for conventional things. I love your mother with all my heart, and I love Olivia with all my heart, and I wouldn’t trade either of them for the world. They’re my soulmates, my true loves. Love is not a finite resource, and I’ve got so much of it to give. Sometimes I fear we’ll receive pushback or discrimination for choosing to love the way we do, but it’s a chance I’m willing to take. The world may never understand, but so long as I’m alive, I’ll fight for this strange, beautiful thing we’ve built together.

I could write an entire book about all the memories I share with Olivia, and I just might eventually. But the story isn’t over yet, and I pray it never ends.

Dear Cadence, Part Fifteen: Find Your Chosen Family

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.

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.

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.

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.

Dear Cadence, Part Eleven: You Will Get Hurt, and You Will Hurt Others

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

It wasn’t enough to play music. I wanted a band.

I wanted the family, the ups and downs, the VH1 Behind the Music where we all talk about how much we love each other even after struggling through five overdoses and the guitarist cheating on his wife with the drummer’s wife. I wanted the full experience.

And what I got was Dethklok.

Dethklok was not the real name of this band, but to protect the identities of the innocent (and the guilty), I’ve changed all the names to the members of the protagonists of the show Metalocalypse. In fact, for this chapter and this chapter only, I am Toki Wartooth. You can imagine me with a mustache if it helps.

I met the band when I opened for them at their album release party. It was the biggest show I’d played to date, and even with just me and my acoustic guitar. I got the crowd going, rather impressing the Dethklok guys (I say guys, but there were female members. But for the sake of consistency, we were all guys.)

I played for them a second time at another venue, this one with a private green room. After my performance, they cornered me in the green room bathroom.

“We want you to join Dethklok as our second guitarist and go on tour with us,” they said — no, demanded. And who was I to refuse such an offer!

It was all rainbows and roses at the start. I befriended the other members of the band pretty quickly. There was Nathan Explosion and Skisgaar Skwigelf, the lead vocalist and guitarist, respectively, who were dating. William Murderface was the bassist, a certifiable weirdo, but a charming one. And Pickles the Drummer was just kind of…there. He had red hair.

Learning the songs was easy for me, so much so that the rest of the band was beyond impressed. To be fair, they were basic four chord pop-punk songs for the most part, save for one relatively heavy post-hardcore number where Nathan Explosion would scream and Skwisgaar and I would “chug chugga chug” on the guitar. One of these days I’ll show you one of our old songs. They were definitely songs.

The band was becoming something of a family to me. We’d eat together, play games together, and just generally do life together. And what’s more, people liked us! We had a ton of fans, something I wasn’t used to. There were fanfictions written about us, even. It was surreal.

The fall tour would be the true test of our bonds, though. And as we got ready for the first of our two regional tours, I found myself daydreaming about Murderface more and more. We were the two carnivores of the group — the rest of the band was vegan — and we both dealt with a lot of mental health issues (that we actually acknowledged, since the entire band was incredibly mentally ill and incredibly unmedicated). Was I falling for him? Fans were already shipping Toki and Murderface. Were we a match made in pop-punk heaven? We spent several nights together just hanging out and listening to John Frusciante’s solo material, and after some time, he gave me his grandmother’s ruby ring and asked if someday, I’d marry him. Lost in the fantasy, the rock and roll fairytale I was living in, I accepted.

But that first tour was an absolute whirlwind. We traveled much of the East Coast and Midwest playing tiny clubs and bars. Most of the shows weren’t that big — just a couple of local bands and us — but it was exhilarating to be able to play to new faces every night. I felt like a true rock star, even if we were sleeping in our drummer’s mom van and random people’s houses and not a luxurious tour bus. Even if we all smelled horrible by the end of the tour and we had to mask our natural musks with copious amounts of perfume and cologne. It was an adventure unlike anything I’d ever experienced.

There were arguments now and then, mostly between Nathan Explosion and Skwisgaar. A few times, I was dragged into a conflict, such as the time Skwisgaar and Pickles made me and Murderface cry for not being vegans. (They were all like “What if someone ate your dog?” And I cried, being the damn Pisces I am.) We were a tight knit group, but the threads began to unravel as the fights became more and more frequent. Suddenly, I was seeing how mentally unstable we all were, myself included. Still, these people were becoming my best friends, even more so than your mom and Aunt Mel. I trusted them with my life. It was a toxic, codependent five-way relationship.

By the time our winter tour rolled around, things came to a head. The arguments were so frequent, we were bickering more than we were talking music, or anything else for that matter. Nathan Explosion and Skwisgaar broke up, and Murderface and I were on the rocks too, as I’d recently reconnected with Jacob from earlier and I wanted things to finally go somewhere with him (spoiler alert: it went nowhere). So I was far away from home surrounded by people who all hated each other, and at our homecoming show, Skwisgaar slammed his guitar on the ground in a fit of rage. The next day, we unanimously decided to split up. It was an ugly breakup, uglier than all of my romantic breakups combined. Harsh words were spoken. Threats were made. I finally made the decision to cut them all out of my life, once and for all. And I’m so glad I did.

Healing was rough, but I managed. Your mom and Aunt Mel were the rocks I needed to lean on, and they gave me all the support I needed as I found my way again. I learned my lesson not to trust just anyone, and not to get swept off my feet by whatever shiny opportunity presents itself, because the truth is, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. People will hurt you, but the right people will own up to it. And you will hurt people too, and it’s your responsibility to own up to it as well. I got stabbed in the back by folks I considered friends, but I wasn’t innocent either. In the end, we were all very mentally ill and very unmedicated.

I’m sure you’re wondering whatever happened to Dethklok. I wondered myself, after several years had passed. So I reached out to my old bandmates to apologize for how things ended and make peace with the pas. Murderface and I became friends again through the local art scene, and Pickles went off on his own and never really spoke to me again. Nathan Explosion didn’t want anything to do with me, and in fact blocked me on all social media. I guess I don’t blame him. The funniest thing happened when I cold-messaged Skwisgaar, though.

“I wanted to apologize if I ever did anything to hurt you,” I wrote. “You were like a big brother to me.”

“You mean sister — I’m trans. And there’s no hard feelings. I know I was an ass too.”

And that, my child, is how I became friends with your Aunt Tegan. Funny how life works itself out.

Dear Cadence, Part Ten: There’s No Shame in Trying

So I glossed over one pretty important facet of my college experience — the newspaper.

By the time you read this, “newspaper” will be an obsolete term and the news as you know it will be a bunch of angry guys writing think pieces about whatever their party is upset about at the moment. That is, if the art of news writing hasn’t entirely been overtaken by AI. But back when I was in the journalism world, objective journalism, real journalism, was still gasping for air on its deathbed.

Enter The Eastern Echo.

The Echo was the student-run paper at Eastern Michigan University, and it beckoned to me around the same time I was frustrated with music therapy. I wanted to find something — anything — I was actually good at, and writing was that thing. Even my boss, the assholiest of assholes, couldn’t deny my talent at it. And what a life I’d have as a journalist! Perhaps I’d be the intrepid reporter you see in movies, or a glamorous blogger living in a high-rise apartment in NYC. I allowed myself to dream as I grew to be the best writer on the team, and in less than a year, I was bumped up to arts and entertainment editor.

Life was good as an editor. I had my own office in a creepy, half-abandoned building we shared with the student radio station, and the authorities made the mistake of giving me an access key I could use at any given time. Your mothers and Aunt Mel used to smoke a certain herb in that office at odd hours of the night (back when it was still illegal, mind you). We’d put on some random crap Aunt Mel was into at the time, or The Room, a truly terrible film by a guy named Tommy Wiseau who we currently have as a cardboard cutout (which hopefully will be passed along to you as a family heirloom). It was a halcyon time of reckless youthfulness.

But we still had work to do.

I won the position of editor-in-chief over a much older woman. The heads of the student media board wanted a fresh perspective from a younger person, and I, who was not even old enough to drink at the time, was the perfect candidate. I moved myself into the big office and got to work revamping the paper for a new generation of students. It wouldn’t be easy — we were used to our paper being used as kitty litter for the university students’ cats. It was going to take something wild to get people to actually pay attention to what we were putting out there.

And so, I wrote the poop article.

It’s still one of my proudest moments, this little article I penned about the best places on campus to poop. It went a little viral. Other college papers followed our lead and wrote their own. I was a minor celebrity! Everyone loved my poop article, and the campus was abuzz for days over it.

Yet, there were less savory aspects of the job I would’ve rather done without. The long hours in the office for little pay, having to make a staff of mostly older students listen to me, staying up late to edit every single article that came my way. And I was starting to see the cracks form in my journalistic dream. I was getting so stressed, I was sleeping most of the work day away, letting the assistant editors carry the brunt of the work. I recognize a lot of my problems as then-undiagnosed ADHD and anxiety issues now, but even if I had been mentally well, there were parts of the journalism life I really did not like. At all.

I remember the first time I had to cover a murder. It was difficult for me to talk to the parents of the slain student. I didn’t know what to even say in that situation. It wasn’t like music therapy, where I could sit in somber silence with them and support them in whichever way they needed. Instead, I had to pry for quotes. It felt so dirty, and I hated every second of it. Another time, a stray bullet injured another student. I found myself asking “How did it feel when you were shot?” And that was the moment I realized I couldn’t do this. I finished up my journalism degree and never, ever pursued anything related to journalism ever again.

As much as being editor-in-chief wore me down and left a bad taste in my mouth, I’m glad I had the opportunity to do it, since I learned a lot about myself from it. Sometimes you have to try something once to be able to admit it’s not for you. There’s no shame in that. And hey, I met your mom at that paper!

(Okay, I didn’t meet her there, per se, but it’s where I made her not hate me. Yeah, she hated me at first. Can you believe that?! That’s for another chapter, though. Hold on, we still got a couple more to go!)

Dear Cadence, Part Nine: The Path to Your Dreams is Not Always Linear

I found out what music therapy was from one of my grandma’s nurses when she was dying. She found out I played music and encouraged me to bring in my guitar to play for my grandma and the other old folks at the nursing home. She told me there were people who get paid to do this kind of thing, and that they actually go to school to study the ways music can be used to help people.

I wasn’t sold entirely. My long term plan was to attend Eastern as a pre-med student and eventually go to the more prestigious (and expensive) University of Michigan for medical school. I’d minor in music, but it wouldn’t be my main thing. I wanted to be a cardiologist or a pediatrician or even a neurosurgeon, something that could legitimately help people, instead of wasting my time selfishly playing music for my own ego (this was before the “Jacob”’arc).

I’d already signed up for all of my freshman year bio classes when my parents overheard me singing and playing in my room.

“Remember what that nurse said about music therapy?” they said, implying that they wanted to become the first parents in human history to encourage their child to go to music school instead of becoming a doctor.

So I went back up to the university right away and auditioned for the music therapy program. I already knew my way around a guitar and I could sing circles around most of the other freshmen trying out, so I was a shoo-in.

Despite being less than a half hour from my hometown, life at the university seemed a world away from life in high school. Not only was I living in an artsy fartsy college town, it was also the point in time when the “quirky weird girl” trope was at its most popular. The days when no one wanted to associate with me seemed like another life. Everyone wanted a piece of the guitar-slingin’ manic pixie dream girl, and I was happy to oblige. I started playing house shows and cafe gigs, and I made a name for myself as the Taylor Swift of Ypsilanti, Michigan.

But the cracks began to show as I struggled to stay awake and focused during my classes, to the point where I’d gotten referred to the university counselors by my professors. To top it off, the anxieties that had plagued me my entire life were coming to a head, to a near debilitating degree, and I had no choice but to consult with a psychiatrist at a local clinic for young adults. It was there that I was prescribed Prozac, which I do credit with saving my life, but it wasn’t nearly enough to save my academic attempts. Music therapy school was brutal, and I found myself fighting hard just to stay on top of my coursework.

I’d signed up for the school newspaper on a whim, and that seemed to be working well for me, at least. I was a naturally skilled writer. I didn’t even have to try to crank out article after article for the paper — I would sit down at my laptop and the words would just flow through my fingertips. I even got awarded the title of editor for the arts and culture section of the paper less than a year into me working there (we’ll revisit that in the next chapter). I did some research on the journalism major and it seemed significantly easier than music therapy, which was becoming increasingly difficult to even find the motivation to study for. As my mental health declined, I wondered how I’d ever be a therapist when I couldn’t even help myself. At least newspaper editors didn’t have to help other people figure their shit out. I could just do my thing and pretend I was okay.

So I made the decision to switch my major to journalism and forego music therapy altogether.

Still, even after I graduated, it felt like something was missing from my life. I tried finding writing jobs but nothing ever stuck. This was around the time I was still reeling from the breakup of my first real band (which we’ll get to) and the crumbling of my first marriage (which we’ll also get to). Nothing was working out, and I needed to regroup and figure something else out. That’s when Coco happened.

Coco was a Disney movie about a little Mexican boy who plays guitar against his family’s wishes. I won’t spoil it, although I’m certain I’ve played it for you at some point in your childhood. (What kind of a mother would I be if I didn’t make you watch all my favorite Disney movies?) But the climax of the movie, where music helps the protagonist’s grandmother momentarily regain her precious memories, made me realize I’d made the wrong decision when I switched majors. I was meant to — destined to — use music to heal people. No, I wasn’t too messed up to be a music therapist. That was a damn lie I told myself and believed to the point it became the truth. I drove straight up to that university myself and told the professors I’d be joining them once again that fall.

And…I failed once more. This time, it wasn’t my choice. I had a strong start. That school year began with me trying my very best. I was doing everything in my power to succeed this time, taking notes and staying alert and keeping organized. Then, something happened at that year’s music therapy conference that derailed all my plans.

I was raped.

The assailant was a total stranger, and I should have known better than to trust him when I met him at the rooftop bar at my hotel. But I was lonely, and it was my first time traveling alone, no friends, no parents, no husband. And he was charming. He said he loved how I was using music to help people.

All before everything went dark, in the absolute worst way possible.

After the incident, my mental health took a nosedive. I couldn’t concentrate for shit. I started drinking myself sick every night. I was making rash decisions and doing everything I could to drown out the ever-present feeling of disgust. I eventually snapped and found myself crying in the office of one of my professors. I couldn’t do this anymore.

And so I dropped out of the music therapy program for a second time.

This is a depressing chapter, right? I promise it has a happy ending.

Another few years passed and I found myself drifting aimlessly once again. I was in a slightly better place — I was married to someone I actually wanted to be married to, and my mental health was finally on the up-and-up. I even got a proper ADHD diagnosis, which explained some of the inattentiveness that made my previous attempts at the degree more difficult. But I didn’t have a job I actually liked. I knew I was meant for more than wiping people’s butts or slinging prescription pills. (Legally. As a pharmacy technician. Your mother was never a drug dealer.)

So, tail tucked between my legs, I whimpered pathetically at the professors one last time, begging for one last shot at that music therapy degree.

And this time, it worked! While finishing those last two years of schooling, I managed to earn a prestigious scholarship and even presented on autism for the university’s undergraduate research symposium. In 2023, I completed the coursework necessary to become a music therapist. As of writing, I’m waiting to hear back from my internship site. After completing the internship, I have to take a test, and then I’ll be certified. In other words, I still have a long road ahead of me, but the worst is over.

Sometimes I wonder where I’d be if I’d just stayed the course and finished my music therapy degree years ago. The truth is, I probably would have crashed and burned. I needed to learn to take care of myself first; otherwise, I probably wouldn’t have been focused and motivated enough to earn that scholarship or present in that symposium. I would have gotten meh grades and probably would have landed a meh job I would have given up on as soon as things got hard. But my place in music therapy is now fire-forged. I’ve been through the worst, and now I’m better equipped and prepared to face whatever comes next. The twelve years it took me to get this far weren’t a waste of time. Rather, it was time spent figuring out for sure that this is where I belong. I don’t think I would have made it this far had I not taken all the time I needed to reevaluate my core values and recover from, well, everything.

Often, the path to your dreams isn’t linear. It’s a road with many forks, pitfalls, and distractions. If you ever lose your way, though, just remember this chapter. When you discover what it is you’re meant to be in this world, it will chase you down, and no amount of obstacles will keep you from what it is you need to do. You are stronger than everything that will ever try to hold you back. You’re a force of nature unlike anything anyone’s ever seen, and I’m so excited to see where life takes you.

Dear Cadence, Part Eight: Just Because It Doesn’t Last, Doesn’t Mean It’s Not Special

I promise this will be the last lovey dovey chapter for a while. And this one — well, this one was different.

I still remember his full name. Jacob Liepshutz. Pronounced “lip-shuts,” not “lip-shits,” but get the giggles out now. He was short, about my height, with a bit of a squeaky voice and tufts of curly dark hair, and with these deep brown eyes that could see your soul. He was the typical nice Jewish boy you’d see in rom coms, the kind you would be happy to take home to your mama, with one important distinction.

He could fucking shred.

The band was called Smiles & Anchors, and their signature song was called “Shark Week.” It was a standard issue metalcore song for the most part, save for the very end, when Jacob would launch into the most captivating, triumphant guitar solo I’d ever heard in my eighteen-or-so years of life. And that’s when he won me over.

It wasn’t a crush I realized I held until the night I stayed with his family in West Bloomfield after a show. We had become decent enough friends for him to have offered to drive me out to see them in a town that was the opposite direction of where I was living. I felt bad for putting him through all the trouble, but he was happy to take me. By the time the bands had all played and he’d finished packing up his gear, it was far too late to make the trek to the other side of the Metro Detroit area. So I crashed with him for the night.

I stayed on the couch in the basement, and about ten minutes into me lying down, Jacob snuck into the room with me.

“Is it okay if I lie down with you?” he asked softly.

I knew what was going to happen if I said yes, but I did anyway. And I never regretted it.

The next morning, he drove me back to my little college town, and I still remember him playing “Shiksa (Girlfriend)” by Say Anything. “I have a girlfriend now, no way, no how,” the song sang as we rolled down the highway, me wrapped in his old varsity jacket. I never felt this kind of…was it love? I couldn’t figure it out. All I know is that entire day, as I went through the motions of my music therapy classes, I still felt his touch on my skin, and every time, I’d get shivers.

For that month, September, we were inseparable. Any chance we both had to be together, we were. I remember the night of Rosh Hashanah, lying on the beanbag chairs in my dorm, studying the freckles in his eyes as if there’d be a test. I remember meeting his parents and his little siblings and how kind they were to me. I remember him taking me to his old high school and showing me around the band room, where he’d spent so much of his time. I told him about how I played in my high school band and how I desperately wanted to make it in music as well.

One night, we sat in a parking lot while listening to the acoustic work of Buckethead, one of his favorite guitarists.

“I have a band too,” I said. “Well, a project. It’s called Wake Up Jamie.”

“Who’s Jamie?”

“Nobody,” I laughed. “It was a misheard lyric from a song I used to like. Where did Smiles & Anchors come from?”

His calloused fingertips interlaced with my own. “I make music because I want to see people smile. I don’t do it for myself. And what you’re doing with music therapy…that’s so admirable to me.”

I breathed a soft “thank you” and leaned into him. Asteroids could have decimated the planet in that very moment and I would have died happy.

Then, one day, it just…stopped. I stopped getting cute texts from him. He didn’t seem to want to hang out. I went to a Halloween show, and he barely acknowledged me. It was like a switch flipped. I was devestated.

It wasn’t until years later that I found out he’d been struggling with depression, much the same as I had been, and just kind of…fell off. He never meant to hurt me. In fact, he didn’t realize I felt so deeply about him. He went on to join another band and sign with a fairly major label, and I went on with my own life. We did eventually reconnect and casually dated again for a week or so, but nothing ever came of it. I was still heartbroken, but by that time, I had a million other things to be heartbroken about as well, like the breakup of my first official band, Dethklok (it’ll make sense later). I had to accept the hard truth that maybe Jacob Liepshutz wasn’t my soulmate after all.

Even still, I have an anchor tattooed on my foot in honor of that time in my life — not symbolizing Jacob himself, but what he taught me about music and about life. Music is great when you make it for yourself, but it becomes beautiful when you release it out into the world and let it affect the people around you. The anchor is a symbol to me to stay humble and remember why I picked up the noble art of music in the first place. Music is how I have always connected with people, and if I can use it to bring a little light into the lives of others, I’ll be happy. Jacob reminded me of that, and for this reason, he’ll always be a part of me.

Sometimes, the relationships you have aren’t meant to last forever, but they existed in that brief glimmer of life to teach you something valuable. And to me, that makes it all worth it.