If you didn’t already know, I tend to straddle the line between emotions and logic. I’m an almost perfect blend of my parents in that way. My brain works almost too well — if I swing too hard into the emotional realm, I’m good at thinking it over until it’s not as scary. But sometimes my logical side overpowers everything and I overthink the everything.
This can be dangerous. Especially when it comes to creative endeavors.
There’s a French term analogous to deja vu called deja entendu, and yes, I know this from my problematic faves, Brand New.
Me, emo? Never.
Deja vu means “already seen,” but deja entendu means “already heard.” It’s the auditory cousin. And it’s haunting me. You see, there are 12 notes in the Western music scale, including the sharp and flats, and each of those notes can build major and minor chords in addition to other weird chords nobody talks about. There should be seemingly limitless combinations of sounds, but I keep getting hung up on the fact that there is a finite amount of combinations you can make. And unless you want to make weird artsy proggy stuff like two people will listen to, there are formulas to stick to for the sake of making things aesthetically pleasing. My problem isn’t that I can’t write good music — it’s that I feel like nothing about write is original, or even can be original, because everything good has already been written.
It’s the weirdest writing block I’ve run into.
I’ve been doing a lot of recording and producing lately, and although I’m proud of how my music is sounding, I can’t help but wonder if someone else is out there doing it already and doing it better than me. There are eight billion-ish people on this planet. At least a couple are producing their own mediocre pop-rock anthems too. What sets me apart from them?
I think this is where my emotional side comes in, because it’s the part that reminds me that my music is valuable and my perspective is unique. I’m the only person in the world with the lived experience I have, and no life will ever unfold the way mine did again. If Jack Antonoff or Rick Rubin came in to produce the exact same song I’m working on, it’s not going to sound the same because they’re not me. My music is mine. What makes it unique isn’t the chord progressions or the lyrics or the fancy microphone I’m still paying off. It’s the human aspect, the fifth element.
It’s her!
Still, it’s frustrating when your brain won’t let you believe anything you create is unique. I’m pushing forward despite being mired in this feeling. I don’t want to lose the momentum I’ve gained. I’m going to keep moving and keep creating.
I swear whoever makes the prompts for WordPress is stalking me.
What is your career plan?
…is a question that has been on my mind constantly since deciding to step back from music therapy, aka the only career path I saw myself on for literally my entire adult life. Funny how things change so quickly.
So basically, I’m back to the drawing board as far as my career plan goes. I’ve been busy regrouping and trying to figure out my next steps, and I feel like I’m finally getting to a place where I can accept myself as someone other than Jess J. Salisbury, MT-BC. She was someone I’m not, and that’s okay. Adulthood is about constantly rediscovering who you are.
But while I don’t have a solid plan for moving forward yet, I do have a few ideas for how I’d like things to fall together in the future.
Step One: Teach Music
Straightforward enough. I need a job to survive, and I’m not a bad music teacher. I actually enjoy it quite a bit! I’ll need a stable job to fund the next step.
Step Two: Start a Recording Studio
My dream for my music therapy degree was to start a studio akin to this one. I wanted to help people of all ages and abilities to create music they can be proud of. And the good news is, I don’t need a music therapy degree to do this! I can just, you know, start one. Of course, a music therapy degree would add some legitimacy for marketing purposes, but so would…
Step Three: Get a Master’s in Music Production
Okay, maybe I’m just inspired by my girlfriend getting her master’s degree recently (CONGRATS LIVVY!), but I’ve always wanted to get a higher education in…something. I always used to joke that I refused to die before I had “Dr.” in front of my name. I still would like a doctoral degree in something, but first things first. Berklee has a completely online master’s program in music production that looks awfully tasty.
Step Four: Record My Friends’ Bands
When I asked a music producer friend in Nashville what her advice was for getting involved in the industry, she said word-of-mouth was the key to success. So to get my name out there, I want to record music for my friends for free. From there, I can build a following and a client base.
Step Five: Start an Art and Music Collective
This is a bit of a pipe dream, but I want to open a facility for people to safely create in their preferred medium. This could take the shape of a coffeeshop or music venue that puts on shows and has space for artists to work. I want to promote creativity and expression in the community and give back any way I can.
I’m realizing one of the biggest motivating factors behind everything I do is my fear of being forgotten. It’s part of the reason I want kids. It’s part of the reason I want to make recordings of my songs. It’s part of the reason I want to donate a shitton of money someday to get a bench with my name on it. One day, when I die, I want people to remember my name. And I hope my career plan leads me to that sort of immortality. I want to have been a pillar of the community. I want to leave a legacy.
Not a humanitarian crisis, although there are plenty of those happening in the world too.
You see, maybe I’m friends with the wrong people on Facebook, but it seems like almost daily I’m inundated with memes like this one:
Or this one:
None of those good enough for ya? How about one that’s both transphobic and threatens physical violence?
Double the assholery, double the fun, or whatever that gum commercial said.
The funny thing is, most of the people who share these memes will turn around and share DO YOU LOVE JESUS?! TYPE AMEN! types of posts in practically the same click. It would almost be funny if these same people didn’t have so much power. But as we learned with the overturning of Roe v. Wade, these folks can and will take away fundamental freedoms from us. Freedoms. You know, the very thing the right loves to brag about preserving.
“Expand freedom” my left asscheek.
I don’t know at what point in history “helping others” and “being a decent fucking human” became a partisan issue, but for some reason, it is. And I blame toxic individualism.
A certain amount of individualism isn’t bad. It’s what enables us to stand out and create new things. Nothing great would be accomplished without someone pushing against the grain. It’s when individualism evolves into “I got mine, so screw you” that it becomes toxic.
Kinda like this.
It’s why people turn against each other so easily these days. Remember when people didn’t give a shit about being transgender? No one was boycotting Pokémon back in the 90s for having Meowth be voiced by a trans woman. But somehow trans people having more rights takes away rights from cisgender people, and right wing pundits utilized that fearmongering to make trans folks public enemy number one. All because people are afraid of losing their rights to a group that is honestly muchworseoff than them.
Why are we as a people so dead-set on fucking over other folks? Why do we as a society pit groups of people against each other?
“It’s the same string of arrogant assumptions that spawned the master race theories of Herr Hitler: ego deification, social Darwinism, arbitrary stratification of human types,” this article ponders. “Adapted for capitalism, it becomes the divine right to plunder, a license for those who own nearly everything to take the rest, because they wish to, because they can. Because the weak don’t matter. Let the big dogs feed.”
“Success coaches” like Andrew Tate espouse the same kind of individualistic BS — life’s about making your own money, popping out your own babies, and bowing to that primal urge to get yours before someone else takes it from you. But is that a way to truly be human?
Anthropologist Margaret Mead famously said the earliest sign of human civilization was a healed bone. In the animal kingdom, should a creature break a bone, that would almost certainly spell death for the poor thing. A stronger animal will easily overpower it and claim it as a snack. But someone protected and cared for another person long enough for their injury to heal. The thing that makes us different from animals is our ability to care for one another for unselfish reasons. This is our humanity. This is the very thing these “survival of the fittest” types want to erase.
Call me a bleeding heart librul, but I’d rather pay a little extra in taxes so some kid can get a free lunch or someone’s grandpa can get the cancer treatment he needs. I can learn a few Spanish phrases to make immigrants’ lives a little easier. I’d make small sacrifices like getting used to a friend’s new name or pronouns if it means welcoming in marginalized folks. It honestly isn’t that much of a sacrifice — we honor newlywed women’s name change requests all the time. American right wing politics make no logical sense to me. At some point, it just seems like people are going out of their way to be dicks to folks they don’t even know.
I’m not saying voting blue will change everything overnight. Everyone knows even left-leaning politicians are bought off by companies and individuals with less than wholesome intentions. A revolution isn’t going to magically happen anytime soon. But maybe we can start by not actively being jerks to other people. Maybe we can start by embracing our humanity.
Here’s a shocker: I’m a bit of a Swiftie. I know I’ve written a defense of her before, but never a proper album review. Since The Tortured Poets Department just came out, I figured now was as good a time as ever to write one. I’m no music journalist, but I do have a degree in music and journalism, so I might as well put my useless skills to use for a Music Review Nobody Asked For.
First things first: The Tortured Poets Department is not an album. It is a cry for help. I have never in my life heard a more depressing two hours of music. Even her obligatory “glitter gel pen” song of the album is sad as hell when you get past the bouncy synths and actually listen to the lyrics. Like, she literally screams “I’m miserable!” at the end of it.
“And no one even knows!”
I differ from most Swifties in that I really don’t give a shit about her personal life. She’s a billionaire I’m never going to meet. It’s the same reason I don’t care about sports. When everyone back home was freaking out about the Detroit Lions doing important stuff, I was indifferent. I don’t know those guys. They’re just some stinky dudes. That’s how I feel about Taylor. I admire her for her songwriting, but I feel like I get more out of music when I don’t know who the song is about. That way, I can relate the song more to my own life and in turn get more out of it emotionally. “Teardrops On My Guitar” isn’t about Drew, it’s about my middle school crush Kyle Kelley, damn it.
And it’s probably for the best that it’s NOT about Drew, because Drew sucks.
The thing about TTPD, though, is that the album hinges on the fact that people know who it’s about. And supposedly it’s mostly about this guy:
This is the muse, y’all.
I know nothing about Matty Healy except that he’s 1. the frontman of The 1975, a band I also don’t care about, and 2. kind of a dickhead, but who am I to judge her taste in men? I don’t exactly have a pristine track record when it comes to dating dudes (which is probably why I switched to primarily women), so I have no room to talk. But apparently other Swifties do feel the need to judge her for her less-than-stellar choice. Like, some fans literally wrote her an open letter telling her to stay away from this guy, which is kind of wack, and also the inspiration behind like, half of this album.
But Jessa, isn’t this review about the music?
Well, yeah. I don’t want to ruminate on this topic for longer than I need to, but it’s important to contextualize this album. This is essentially a concept album about a forbidden romance, and one Taylor seemingly caused herself. You see, dating Matty Healy would taint her brand, but if the songs on this album are any indication, she thinks he’s the love of her life. What would you choose — the reputation and career you’ve built up for yourself since 2006, or the guy of your dreams? I can see why she wrote these songs the way she did. It’s a weird situation to be in, and not a situation I envy.
But let’s get into the music. There’s two parts to the TTPD — the album proper, and The Anthology, a companion album of sorts released two hours after the initial release. As a whole, the first half of the album is soft and synthy, owing to Jack Antonoff’s production, while the second half is closer in vibe to the folklore/evermore sound, with Aaron Dessner producing much of it. The fandom seems pretty divided on which half is better, and honestly both halves have some great songs and a few duds. For better or worse, the album is pretty cohesive — no one song really “stands out” as THE BEST, but most of the songs are pretty strong. Let’s look at some of the highlights.
Fortnight: This is the lead single, so I’m obligated to comment on it, but honestly, I wasn’t too impressed by it. It’s the same chords all the way through and is constantly building, but never really gives us that “oomph” moment it promises. Post Malone’s vocals add a little pizzazz to it, but it’s pretty lackluster for a single. I was expected Taylor to punch me in the face with whatever single she had lined up for this album, but it was a mild slap at best.
The Tortured Poets Department: As the title track, I feel obligated to comment on this as well. The 80s-ish drums grabbed my attention, but musically I wasn’t too impressed with this one either. Lyrically, it’s fairly strong, though. I think people miss the sarcasm. She’s calling out her boo for fancying himself a tortured poet, and maybe calling herself out as well. He’s as much a Dylan Thomas figure as she is Patti Smith. The theme of self-deprecation is recurring in this album.
My Boy Only Breaks His Favorite Toys: This one’s a skip for me. The music’s alright, but nothing to write home about.
Down Bad: People seem to really like this one, but it’s a skip for me too. I feel like Taylor’s just trying to see how many f-bombs she can sneak into a song without it being grating.
So Long, London: Everyone was really anticipating this one since it was rumored to be about her doomed long-term relationship with Joe Alwyn. The light almost-choral vocals in the beginning remind me of “My Tears Ricochet,” one of the standout tracks from folklore, but it doesn’t hit me as hard as that song did for some reason. The line “I’m pissed off you let me give you all that youth for free” did send me for a loop, though. Imagine wasting the best years of your life with someone who ultimately let you down. I hate the whole trad-fucko ideology of “marry young so you can pop out a ton of babies before menopause” (which a lot of trad-fuckos pushed onto Taylor — looking at you, Stefan Molyneux), but there is something to be said about squandering all that time you could have spent building a life for yourself. It’s a sad situation all around, and this song captures that feeling.
But Daddy I Love Him: Now we’re cooking. This is the strongest track on the album so far. At a glance, it’s the big sister of “Love Story” — a tale of forbidden love, a modern Romeo and Juliet. The melody even has a sort of country cadence, throwing back to Taylor’s roots. Looking closer, it almost seems to be a takedown of those unhinged fans who wrote her that aforementioned open letter, the “judgmental creeps…sanctimoniously performing soliloquies” she’ll never see and the “saboteurs” saying “stay away from her.” The music takes it to the next level, bombastic and triumphant as she cries that her love is her choice. This is one of the highlights of this album and not a track to be skipped.
Fresh Out the Slammer: I’ve listened to this album probably three or four times now and I remember nothing about this song.
Florida!!!: This Florence + the Machine feature isn’t one of my favorites, but pleasant enough. I enjoy the cheeky “Is that a bad thing to say in a song?” as the lyrics imagine the bodies of past lovers sinking into the swamp.
Guilty As Sin?: Taylor really likes punctuation marks in her songs it seems. As a level-headed Christian, I at least appreciated the religious imagery in the bridge, which seems to have pissed off the right people. (Sean Feucht can go Feucht himself.)
Who’s Afraid of Little Old Me?: Upon my first listen, the first time she screamed “WHO’S AFRAID OF LITTLE OLD ME?” was a bit of a jumpscare. And this song is supposed to be scary. The “circus life” made her deranged and disturbed, even using the metaphor of a performing lioness with her teeth removed. The song is bleak and upsetting, as it should be. This is one of the first indications that Taylor’s mind isn’t all rainbows and sequins but a dark, unsettling place.
I Can Fix Him (No Really I Can): This song is sparse and brooding-sounding as she croons about a lover she insists she can change before the final line realization that maybe she can’t. This isn’t a standout track, but worth a listen.
loml: Another tearjerker along the lines of “So Long, London.” She recalls promises of rings and cradles, only to have her hopes of stability dashed. The instrumentation is appropriately sparse. Not one of my favorites, but again, worth listening to.
I Can Do It With a Broken Heart: This is the one singular “glitter gel pen” song of the album, and it’s still a bit of a bummer. She sings about how her life is falling apart around her, but she has to keep up appearances, still smiling and giving us a show even when it hurts. The synths are bubbly and poppy, contrasting rather starkly with the lyrics. At the end, her voice cracks as she screams “I’m miserable and no one even knows!” This woman is literally on top of the world, and yet this song proves how terribly lonely she is. I think back to Britney Spears’ “Lucky.” “I’m If there’s nothing missing in my life, then why do these tears come at night?”
The Smallest Man Who Ever Lived: This is probably her most biting song yet, a vicious takedown of an ex-lover who wronged her. Most of the song is pretty calm and subdued, but the bridge gave me literal chills the first time I heard it. Taylor’s the queen of bridges, but these might be some of the angriest lyrics she’s ever written. Hell hath no fury like a singer-songwriter scorned — trust me, I’d know.
The Alchemy: A skip, in my opinion. Nothing really stood out to me about this one.
Clara Bow: First thing I noticed about this song was the amazing bass-driven riff that carries the song. It adds such a darkness to the song musically. The lyrics, according to Taylor herself, are inspired by the way the entertainment industry markets upcoming female performers as the “new and improved” versions of their predecessors. It’s a time progression song that starts in the silent film era with actress Clara Bow, then travels to 1975, when Stevie Nicks was on top of the world with Fleetwood Mac. Finally, Taylor namedrops herself as the one whose star would eventually be eclipsed by a starlet who has the edge she never had. It’s the kind of self-deprecation I mentioned earlier that is ubiquitous throughout the album. This is an appropriate finale to the first part of the double album.
The Black Dog: Arguably my favorite song on the album and quite possible one of my favorites in her entire discography. It heartbreakingly tells the tale of a woman watching as her ex-lover goes about his life, oblivious to how much he’d hurt her. “I just don’t understand how you don’t miss me,” Taylor laments. The music crescendos at the end of every chorus, building up to a climax that ultimately never happens. Normally that kind of let-down would drive me nuts, but it works for this song, representing a love that ultimately went nowhere. The song also namedrops The Starting Line, a relatively obscure emo band, which made my inner 16-year-old squeal. I feel like people forgot that Taylor is a MySpace millennial too.
imgonnagetyouback: All of the commotion I’ve heard about this song revolves around how it’s a similar concept to Olivia Rodrigo’s “Get Him Back.” I think they’re different enough, but unfortunately, Taylor’s take on the idea doesn’t do much for me. It’s a fairly forgettable song compared to the other gems on this half of the album.
The Albatross: This is Taylor at her folklore/evermore-est. She does folk-tinged pop well. No notes on this one, just a solid song.
Chloe or Sam or Sophia or Marcus: The chorus is emo poetry at its best. “If you want to break my cold, cold heart, say you loved me. And if you want to tear my world apart, say you’ll always wonder.” Those lines remind me of “Your House” by my one of my all-time favorites, Jimmy Eat World. “If you love me at all, please don’t tell me now.”
How Did It End?: Another somber tearjerker. One line really stood out to me — “My beloved ghost and me, sitting in a tree, D-Y-I-N-G.” The way she turns a childhood chant into something heartbreaking is chilling. Hey kids, spelling is fun!
So High School: This song is a 90s alternative-flavored bop reminiscent of a more optimistic “Hits Different.” It contains all the giddiness of being in a fresh relationship with someone who reminds you of the butterflies you got from your first crush, along the lines of Katy Perry’s now-legendary “Teenage Dream.” A lot has already been said about the lyrical content, particularly as it relates to Taylor and her most recent relationship with football star Travis Kelce, but as a guitarist, I couldn’t help but fixate on the gorgeous guitar tone present throughout the song. Aaron Dessner really outdid himself with this airy nostalgia-fest.
I Hate It Here: Not my favorite, but I don’t dislike it. A lot of the discourse around this song revolves around her line about wishing she lived in the 1830s minus the racism and sexism. People have called her out for addressing such heavy topics so flippantly, but it’s worth noting that she even points out how silly her fantasies are in the subsequent lines. This song feels like it was very much written from a childlike perspective, if said child was very loquacious.
thanK you aIMee: Yes, she formatted the title like that. I feel like the Taylor Swift/Kim Kardashian feud is very passé at this point, but Taylor has to kick the corpse of the dead horse one more time. If you ignore the fact that this song is obviously about Kim, it’s pretty solid, especially if you interpret the lyrics as a takedown of a childhood bully. It was cathartic screaming these lyrics to my own “Aimee” in the car. (Fuck you, Carissa.)
I Look in People’s Windows: Some more self-deprecation as she calls herself a “deranged weirdo” for creeping on people’s get-togethers through the window, hoping for a glimpse of her lost lover. It’s another tearjerker, although I don’t consider it one of her best songs on the album.
The Prophecy: Probably the saddest song on an album chock full of wildly depressing music. In this song, Taylor pleads to a higher power to “change the prophecy,” offering to trade her fortune for some true companionship. Her voice sounds almost pained as she begs for another chance at real love. It’s a powerful reminder that money can’t buy happiness, and it’s one of the standout tracks on this half of the album.
Cassandra: There are some similarities between this song and Taylor’s “mad woman” from her folklore album, both musically and lyrically. The songs speak of hunting witches and burning bitches, and it almost seems “Cassandra” is a sequel of sorts. The snake allusions hit two-fold, both as a callback to the snake motif associated with Taylor’s reputation album and as a nod to the actual Greek myth of Cassandra, who could hear the future when snakes licked her ears.
Peter: A solid song about a lost love of one’s youth. No real notes on this one.
The Bolter: This is easily one of the strongest songs on the album. It’s got a catchy melody that works in tandem with memorable lyrics that detail the life of the titular “bolter,” as her childhood associates called her. It’s a bittersweet tale — while her many trysts never panned out, she’s “got the best stories” to tell, which made it all worth it.
Robin: I’m pretty sure this song is about childhood and innocence. She seemingly talks to a younger person — “The time will arrive for the cruel and mean, you’ll learn to bounce back just like your trampoline.” The title is never dropped in the song, but it’s suspected that the song is addressed to Aaron Dessner’s son, whose name is Robin.
The Manuscript: This one has potential to grow on me, but it’s not one of my favorites at the moment. I appreciate the heartfelt lyrics for what they are, but nothing really hooked me in. I feel like “The Prophecy” or “The Black Dog” would have been a better album closer.
So those are my thoughts on the new album. What are your thoughts? Which tracks stood out to you? What are your “skips”? Let me know in the comments!
Imagine my surprise when I got this writing prompt today:
Describe a risk you took that you do not regret.
I’m writing this literally fifteen minutes after finishing my final music therapy session ever. As in, I will never lead another music therapy session again. I didn’t think I’d ever write those words. I thought I’d become a music therapist and do that forever until I inevitably die (probably while doing music therapy). I sunk my entire adult life into this career. I never pictured myself doing anything else.
I remember how giddy I was to move to Fort Wayne and start my internship. I have several past blog posts about my journey getting here and how excited I was to enter the professional world and make something of myself. The future seemed so bright. I’d won a scholarship for music therapy. I had all my professors watching me in anticipation of great things. Moving here was a huge risk — I had no money except my wife’s Christmas check from her parents and the stipend I’d been awarded, and I knew nobody in the area. But I was willing to take a chance and leap.
There’s an old quote that was plastered on the wall of my elementary school’s library, where I spent most of my lunches to avoid being pelted with ranch dressing packets (which is another story entirely). I still remember the little astronaut on the poster that read:
Shoot for the moon. Even if you miss, you’ll land among the stars.
Norman Vincent Peele
In a way, I feel like moving to Fort Wayne and starting this internship was my way of shooting for the moon. My biggest fear was missing it, but as I approached the moon, I realized the moon wasn’t really where I wanted to be. Maybe my place was among the stars, and maybe me taking that shot was the first step in getting there.
Music therapy is a beautiful thing, but it’s not where my heart is. Music therapy is very cold and clinical compared to how I approach music and people. I realized I’d rather make music that makes people happy and help other people make music that makes them happy. That’s what music is about for me.
I’m glad I got the experience in music therapy that I did, because now I feel better prepared for working with people of all ages and abilities. That’s what I want my studio to be — a safe space for people to make music that makes them happy regardless of how old they may be or what their diagnosis is. I’m also glad I moved to Fort Wayne because of the incredible people I’ve gotten to know. And had I not moved away from the Detroit area, I might have never left and gotten to see what else is out there.
Well, it’s still the Midwest, but baby steps, ya know?
This chapter of my life has been my “shoot for the moon” phase, and I’m about to enter the phase where I dance amongst the stars, where I truly belong. I don’t regret the blood, sweat, and tears that got me here. (Okay, maybe I do regret spending thousands of dollars on a degree I’m not going to finish, but whatever.) In a few short weeks, I’ll be moving to the South Bend area, where I plan to start my recording studio and eventually start the biggest project of my life — a family. I might not have ever done that if I never left my hometown.
So no, I don’t regret this chapter at all. I’ll see you in the stars.
I always said I’d be a music therapist even if it killed me.
To be honest, it almost did.
And I’m still not a music therapist. But I’m okay.
It’s been about a week and a half since I put in my two weeks at my internship. It feels surreal. It still is hitting me that the future I planned so carefully for myself isn’t coming to fruition. I had no backup plan. Being a music therapist was the only path I saw for myself, and the yellow brick road to the MT-BC title was ripped out from under my feet.
There’s an Elton John song for that.
I was going to be a music therapist if it killed me. But what good is a dead music therapist?
I came home from work every day crying because I felt like I wasn’t good enough. It was like playing whack-a-mole with my weaknesses — I’d knock one out only to have three more pop up in its place. “You’re not empathetic enough.” “You can’t read people well enough to be a therapist.” “Feedback goes over your head — or maybe you’re too stubborn to listen to it.” “Oops, you shouldn’t have said that in a session.“ And the one that caused me to drop everything and leave:
“You’re causing more harm than you’re helping.”
Suddenly, I felt like the mole getting whacked.
Not a great feeling.
I was so distraught, for a moment I considered driving my car off the bridge and into the fucking river. Don’t call the psych ward on me — I’m too scared of death to actually act on anything. But the fact that the thought even occurred was my signal that maybe this wasn’t right for me.
I blame a lot of my failings on my particular brand of neurospiciness. A lot of times it felt like my supervisors were speaking another language, and my clients were speaking a completely different language, and I was just this alien being trying to simultaneously decode the feedback I was getting and figure out how to react to what was happening in session in real time without a guidebook or translator. It became very draining for me, to the point where I couldn’t give it my all anymore and I was flailing.
There are neurodivergent music therapists — I’m friends with a handful I could name right here. But my brain just isn’t wired in a way that works well with the clinical mindset you need to be a music therapist, and I’m coming to terms with that. All of the academic papers I’ve written and scholarship-winning presentations I’ve put together and wordy books I’ve read couldn’t have prepared me for the work I had to do.
And that’s okay. Maybe I’m meant for something else.
I wish I hadn’t wasted all of my adult life (and thousands of dollars) on a career that ultimately ended up not being a good fit for me, but they say nothing that leads you to the path you should be on is a waste of time. Perhaps this twist in my story will take me to exactly where I need to be, and if that’s the case, I don’t regret a thing.
As of writing, I’m figuring out my next steps. My dream was to open a recording studio for people of all ages and abilities, but I don’t need some lofty certification to do that. I could start that studio without the MT-BC title, damn it, and just not call it music therapy. It’ll be my own thing. Sometimes when the path to what you want crumbles, you carve out your own path. And that’s exactly what I plan to do in my own time. In the meantime, I’ll fine tune my music production skills and probably teach guitar lessons for a living, at least for a while.
It’s funny, I’m writing this in a little artsy coffeeshop in South Bend, Indiana that has a piano for anyone to play. I sat down at the bench and just played my heart out for the first time in a long time, and it was freeing. There were no expectations, no degree to earn, no supervisors to impress. It was just me and the music (and the room full of coffee-drinking patrons minding their own business). After a while, a little girl came up to me and told me she liked my playing. I invited her to sit with me and I showed her how to play a basic chord, and her face just lit up. As she left, I smiled to myself. That special little moment didn’t need a degree or a certification to happen. It just needed the genuine human connection only music can create, and nothing can take that away from me.
I recently read Different, Not Less, a collection of mini-autobiographies written by adults with autism (and often ADHD as well) curated by autism activist and public figure Temple Grandin, as part of my internship assignments. I wanted to share my thoughts on it here as well, though, as I think this is book is vital reading for anyone who works with the neurodivergent community.
The people selected for the book were largely older adults in their 50s and up who were diagnosed later in life with autism (or Asperger’s, as many of the individuals were diagnosed when Asperger’s was still a category). Most were able to live independently, although each had their own struggles with relationships and family stemming from their autism. Each individual also forged a different career path that managed to work with their unique ways of functioning and seeing the world. Occupational successes were a primary focus of the narratives as Grandin is a huge advocate for autistic folks finding work that suits their needs.
I’m glad I read this book, especially as someone who is neurodiverse myself, as it really hammered in the fact that not all AuDHD folks function exactly the same way as I do. There are struggles I have that other people have, such as issues reading social cues and the relational turmoil that comes with that problem, but there are struggles other people have that I don’t have as much, such as trouble with speech. One thing I realized during reading is that autistic folks generally are “early bloomers” or “late bloomers” when it comes to speaking, and both are valid and need to be supported in their own unique ways. One individual mentioned trouble with “fast conversation” in particular, while another noted difficulty reading tone of voice and facial expressions. Another interesting thread was the fact that many of the folks who contributed to the book felt “fiercely independent,” which, in the context of music therapy, may mean some people might not feel they need help or support. I feel in these cases, it’s especially important to not patronize or “speak down” to these individuals, as being in therapy in the first place may already feel like a blow to the ego. I mentioned earlier that relationship problems were a common factor in most of these folks’ stories, as autism can make it hard to read people and recognize how others are feeling. Many had romantic relationships and marriages crumble over the course of their lives, if they found love at all. Music therapists will need to be prepared to deal with heavy subjects such as divorce and loneliness when working with older autistic adults, as this seems to be a frequent phenomenon.
I think this book is important to read for music therapists because the common archetype associated with autism (and ADHD, one of its “sister” conditions) is the quiet little boy, and these stories prove that this is simply not always the case. There are grown men AND women living with autism and learning to thrive in the world with autistic traits. Nearly half of the contributors were female, and most were older. This book shows that there isn’t one way neurodiversity presents in people. The word neurodiversity contains the word “diversity” for a reason – there’s an entire spectrum of challenges AND superpowers that come with the condition. Emphasis on superpowers as well, as many of the folks ended up not only finding work that was compatible with their unique wiring, but finding work that their individual quirks and differences helped make easier. I feel like a music therapist can work with their autistic clients’ strengths to better prepare them for functioning in a world that isn’t built to accommodate them.
Sensory issues came up fairly frequently. One woman described hating the feel of water on her head as a child, so her mom would have to show her pictures of other little girls getting their hair washed, and that helped her face her discomfort. That same woman, along with a few others, described being sensitive to sounds. A man, the one who made a living repairing bikes, found that restaurant work was very overwhelming to him from a sensory standpoint, which is why he leaned into bicycle repair in the first place.
Some additional commonalities include an attachment to animals. Many of the folks profiled in the book felt disconnected from people, but could relate to animals much easier. A lot of people reported feeling a kinship to their horses. (There’s an inside joke in the neurodivergent community that “horse girls” are just autistic young women with a special interest in horses, and this book made me think that might actually be true!) A lot of autistic individuals seem to enjoy fixing things as well, possibly because it’s not a very “people-y” activity and the superpower of hyperfocus is beneficial for this. One man made a living fixing bikes in college, for example. And music was another recurring theme. While not all of the individuals in the book were musicians or even mentioned music, it did come up frequently enough to stick out in my mind. One man got so interested in music that he’d lock himself in a closet with introductory methods books and teach himself every instrument he could get his hands on. Another person even got interested in choreography and started teaching dance to people with disabilities. She described dance as the way she learned to express emotions, which felt parallel to the way I learned to use music to express emotions.
The individuals profiled in the book all had different reactions to learning of their condition. Many actually grieved their diagnosis, taking some time to reach a point of acceptance, but some felt it was a relief to learn that there was a tangible reason why they felt “different” their entire life. One person wrote “I knew I wasn’t just an individual ‘weirdo’ – about 1% of the population are ‘weridos’ with me!” Another person said it felt like she’d been given a “Martian superpower” and she realized that throughout her life she had been using her unique perspectives and viewpoints to help people. Some grieved the fact that they’d learned of their condition so late in life, wishing they would have gotten proper support as a young person. A lot of the writers went on to become autism advocates and some even work with autistic folks themselves, like the aforementioned choreographer.
This book was very eye-opening and empowering to me as a neurodivergent individual, and I feel better prepared to serve clients like the ones in the book and their individual needs. Emphasis on “individual,” as all of the folks profiled in this collection are very different. I don’t have any older autistic or ADHD clients at the moment, but as someone who very much wishes to work with this population, this is the kind of knowledge I will need to best support these potential clients. Temple Grandin really emphasizes the independence and individuality of these folks, and while I know their stories aren’t representative of everyone in the neurodivergent community (some people can’t safely live independently, for example), it’s good to see people with autism and ADHD living, thriving, and succeeding in a world that tends to paint people with these conditions as helpless or props them up as “inspiration porn.” The neurodivergent community is so diverse and expansive, and this book really humanizes a sector of the population that is often misunderstood. I highly recommend this book to others in the music therapy field as well as professionals in different fields who also work with autistic/ADHD clients.
I’ll admit I haven’t been the best Christian this Lent. I didn’t give anything up, mostly because I know I’ll just slip up a few weeks in (great attitude to have, am I right?). I haven’t been to church because I’m too lazy to find an affirming church in Fort Wayne, and I haven’t even done my 40-day devotional every single day because, well…
It’s me, hi, I’m the problem, it’s me.
But I had to learn a few worship songs for a client I have next week, and it got me in weirdly spiritual mood for once. So I decided to re-download my Bible app and pick a psalm at random, just for funsies. I was born at 1:08 pm (or was it 1:11 pm — I can never remember), so I picked 108. The opening verse hit me like a ton of bricks:
My heart, O God, is steadfast;
I will sing and make music with all my soul.
Psalm 108:1
And I cried. I cry at absolutely everything, but this cry was different. I cried because I think God was trying to speak something to me through that verse.
I am exactly where I need to be.
I was a bit discouraged this week about my music therapy journey. I had my worst session ever on Tuesday (which was my birthday, to add insult to injury). My supervisor had nothing good to say about it. No redeeming qualities. Nada. If I’d spent the entire session watching grass grow with my client, it would have been more productive. And it would be different if it were a one-off problem, but I’ve had ongoing issues with me just not being able to read client or parent behavior. I don’t talk when I’m supposed to, or I talk when I’m not supposed to, or I say too much. I’m positive it’s a neurodivergence thing, but it’s not very reassuring to realize that the problem is something inherently wrong with your brain wiring. I can’t fix autism and ADHD. I’m just sucking at this because I naturally suck at this.
It’s me, hi…
As of writing, I’m at the annual music therapy conference of the Great Lakes region, and it’s disheartening to see all these certified MT-BCs that started their journey with me, or even after me. It took me twelve years to get where I am, in my internship, and during that time, all my cohorts went on to get their degrees and start their careers. I’m meeting people younger than me who are already established professionals. All of this, on top of the roadblock that was my Very Bad Session and my continual failing to people correctly, and it would be so easy for me to give up. I should just be a pharmacy technician, right?
But that’s not why I was put here. And that one little verse was the reminder I needed to keep going.
I wasn’t put on this planet to pass out Wellbutrin prescriptions. I was out here to make music, and more specifically, to heal the world through music. It’s in my blood. Music is as natural to me as breathing, and I want to use it to make the world a better place. Reading Psalm 108:1 was like the part in Moana where she remembers who she is and realizes her power. “And the call isn’t out there at all, it’s inside me. It’s like the tide, always falling and rising. I will carry you here in my heart, you’ll remind me that come what may, I know the way.”
I AM MOANA!
I will be a music therapist. There’s no other option. Just like Moana on her little boat, I’ve come too far to turn back now. I will sing and make music with all my soul, and nothing will get in my way.
If you haven’t heard the news yet, I proposed to my long-term, long-distance partner Olivia last night at a house show, the two year anniversary of the show we met at.
I had it all meticulously planned out — I bought her a rose gold opal ring and played the song I wrote for her during the show and did the whole “down on one knee” thing. She cried. I cried. I think some random strangers cried. It was beautiful.
Now begins even more planning, venues and dresses and cakes and all that. We’re going to go through all the motions and do a spiritually binding ceremony of sorts. But here’s the thing — we can’t legally marry. I’m legally married to my wife, Crass. No, I’m not leaving her for Olivia. They know about each other and like each other a lot. In fact, we all plan to live together as a family.
That’s the joy — and pain — of polyamory.
It hurts that I can’t ever legally make Olivia my wife, but for all intents and purposes, she will be my wife. I plan to do everything in my power to treat her as an equal to Crass, from adding her to my will to making her legal guardian of my future kids (whom she will have a hand in making as the sperm donor). We’re fighting an uphill battle against a monogamy-centered world that doesn’t understand, but it’s worth it. She’s worth it.
As a queer woman, I’m reminded of all the LGBTQ+ couples throughout history who never got to have their love validated by the government. I’m a romantic at heart, as much as I want to deny it at times. I don’t need a formal piece of paper saying we’re a couple. The greatest love stories of all time were never “sanctioned” by the government, all the queer and otherwise forbidden romances between folks of different races or socioeconomic backgrounds during a time when those relationships weren’t allowed. The Romeos and Juliets and the Jacks and Roses.
There’s a Bon Jovi song (of course) that reminds me of these relationships.
I was afraid to listen to it as a church-going kid because it mentioned sin and sin is supposed to be bad, right? But the message of the song is so much more beautiful than my child-mind could have comprehended. It’s about not needing the government or the rest of the world to validate your love. The young couple in the song maintains that it’s not legal marriage that makes a love, but the love itself.
Or is it right to hold you And kiss your lips goodnight They say the promise is forever If you sign it on the dotted line
Bon Jovi, “Living in Sin”
Listening to this song as an adult through a queer lens, and especially as someone in a “scandalous” polyamorous relationship, it takes on a new, deeper meaning. I don’t know where we fit, the three of us, but I know I belong with my partners. I belong with Crass, and I belong with Olivia, and nothing can ever take that from me.
True love is a rare, special thing, and I was lucky enough to find it not once, but twice. That’s not something to take for granted.
I never thought it would happen to me, but I should have expected it. I barely know any women it hasn’t happened to in some form or another. I always assumed if it ever did happen to me, it would be easy enough to get over. The moment ended, after all; you gotta move on sometime.
But when I was raped back in 2019, it stole so much from me. I remember falling into a deep depression that eventually led to the beginning stages of alcoholism. I stopped trusting people and started assuming everyone had bad intentions. And worst of all, it directly led to me dropping out of the music therapy program.
I still remember driving back from that music therapy conference with tears in my eyes, unable to wash the feeling of my assailant from myself. The aftermath left me feeling even more detached from my own body. I tried my best to poison it, and my drinking left it bloated and unrecognizable. I was a wreck, mentally and physically.
But as of writing this, I’m two years sober. I’m in the final stages of my music therapy degree. And perhaps most importantly, I feel at home in my own body again.
I was driving back to Michigan a few days ago for a brief visit when “Back in My Body” by Maggie Rogers came on Spotify. I’d heard the song before, but it never felt relevant to me until that very moment.
I don’t think Rogers intended the song to be a sexual assault recovery anthem (it’s actually about her time overseas), but to me, that’s absolutely what it has become. “This time I know I’m fighting, this time I know I’m back in my body.” I found myself screaming those words as I drove, finally feeling free from that moment that seemingly stole my future.
It’s oddly poetic that I ended up in Fort Wayne of all places. That’s where the last music therapy conference was held, where I finally overwrote the memory of sitting in a hotel rooftop bar next to the man who’d go on to defile me in such an vile way. This time, I went up to the hotel rooftop bar with a girl I love with my whole heart, who I trust with my life. That night when we made love, it was because I wanted it. And I felt safe.
My music therapy degree will be hard-won, and it’s almost finished. I have so much love in my life, between my partners and my parents and my closest friends. The damage that was done has been mostly reversed. The memories still creep in now and then, but I know I’m stronger now. He’ll never hurt me again.
JESSA JOYCE 