On Taking Chances: A Brief Life Update

Let’s start this post with a prompt:

What are you doing this evening?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’m ready to take that leap.

Dear Cadence, Part Fourteen: Marry Your Best Friend

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, and Part Thirteen

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On Christmas Eve.

To get Krubby taken away.

(I told you they were evil.)

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

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

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

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

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

My Life as a “Should’ve Been”

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

Are you holding a grudge? About?

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

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

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

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

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

I guess I’ll never know.

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

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

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

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

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

Until one Saturday evening service, that is.

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

A conversion therapy class for teenage girls.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I needed Jesus.

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

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

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

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

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

(I think I was justified.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Whoever “She” Is, You Don’t Have to Worry

I write this from the absolute depths. Like, the only way things could get worse is if a meteor struck my apartment or something. I got passed over for the internship of my dreams, which was enough of a blow. Then, my tire goes flat. Oh wait, all my tires are bad. There goes $800. And my boss seems to think everything I touch turns to suck, so work hasn’t exactly been a bed of roses, or even cheap carnations.

All this to say I’m not exactly having a great time.

In my times of trouble, I tend to turn to music to comfort me. I’ll never know why it’s so reassuring to know that at one point in time, some dude with a guitar felt exactly the way you feel. But then, The Maine’s “Whoever She Is” came on.

And I cried. Like a freakin’ baby.

It’s not a sad song, nor is it a love song, as one might be led to believe by the title and the soft acoustic arrangement. Rather, it’s a song about standing strong in the face of adversity. “She” isn’t a woman but a personification of whatever is troubling you. And it’s oddly relatable. She could be “rainy days, minimum wage, a book that ends with no last page” or a whole slew of mundane issues. But the chorus ends with “whoever she is, you don’t have to worry.”

Things will be okay.

I imagine John O’Callaghan writing this song from his own personal hell. I imagine he went through shit like I’m going through now. Everyone does. That’s the beauty of music. It reminds us that we’re not alone in this struggle called life. No one’s above it all, and even the rock stars and pop princesses and that cool singer-songwriter who busks on the streets have their own problems. We live in a broken world, and we’re never going to be completely free of heartbreak and disappointment this side of heaven.

That’s why we have music to comfort us. And as I bawled my eyes out, I realized this is exactly why I do music in the first place. And I’m not going to let a few setbacks keep me from doing what I was made to do.

And neither should you. If you’re reading this and you know how I feel, put on your favorite song, have a good cry, and get back on your feet, because things can and will get better. The world will still turn, and so will the tides of fortune. Bad things happen, but so do good things. And I still believe the good in this world outweighs the bad.

Just remember, whoever “she” is, you don’t have to worry.

Sunday Morning Coffee: Embracing Your Almost

I just finished a fantastic book by Jordan Lee Dooley called Embrace Your Almost. I picked it up on a whim while shopping at Target, and let me tell you, it was full of exactly what I needed to hear.

I just got passed over for my dream internship. After dropping out of the music therapy program twice and fighting with all my might to get through all of the program’s coursework, I fell just short of where I wanted to be. Again. I was almost pissed at God for letting me down once more. Couldn’t He snap His fingers and just make me a music therapist already? I didn’t know what I was doing wrong. I had everything planned out perfectly.

But our plans are not His plans. And as I learned through this book, things don’t always turn out as expected. God uses these moments where we fall short of achieving our dreams to refine us, to break us down so we can rebuild stronger than ever.

As Ecclesiastes, my favorite book of emo poetry — ahem, Biblical wisdom — states, there is a season for everything under the sun. If our dreams feel like they’re not progressing, perhaps it’s a sign that we need to slow down and take time to work on ourselves. Maybe it’s a boot camp season, as Dooley puts it in her book, where we put everything we got into becoming the best versions of ourselves so we’re ready for when the next adventure calls.

I’m learning to slow down and enjoy this stage of life, even if I’m not where I ultimately want to end up. If you haven’t achieved your dream just yet, remember there’s a reason why this is exactly where you need to be right now. God makes no mistakes — He’s the author of all of our stories, and everything will work out in His timing.

Giving Yourself Space to Grieve

I wish I had good news to report.

The internship didn’t work out. I’d be lying if I said I’m okay. A lot was riding on me getting that internship. If everything had gone according to plan, I would have finished that internship by the end of next year, moved to Kalamazoo to start my career and family, and everything would be peachy.

But life has its way of throwing wrenches into the best-woven plans.

It was a technicality that I even got passed over for the internship — the supervisor said she just picked the first person who applied. I would have almost rather she just told me I sucked. And because of that little technicality, I’m either going to have to leave the state (along with my wife, who will have to leave her sick mother behind), or get a local internship in hospice, which I really, really, really did not want to do. You know, with that whole “unshakeable fear of death” thing I have going on.

I know things are going to turn out for the best, that God works everything together for the good of those who love Him and all that, but right now, I just need to grieve. I need space to have emotions about all of this. I need to scream and throw things and write whiny blog posts and eat chocolate tarts about it. There’s no fault in that, right?

When I first went up to the university to sign up for my classes, I originally signed up for premed, with every intention of going to med school and becoming a doctor. It was my parents who convinced me to go to school for music therapy instead. I want to make them proud. I need to finish this degree even if it damn well kills me, and it honestly might at this point.

Maybe I should have been a cardiologist, I don’t know. All I know is that music therapy has been chasing me down my entire adult life and even if I don’t get the internship of my dreams, something else will come along. It has to. In the words of Eminem, success is my only motherfuckin’ option, failure’s not. I know I was put on this planet to heal people with my music, and I’m going to do it, one way or another. I don’t care what I have to do. I’ll fight until I physically can’t anymore.

But for now, I’m going to allow myself to be upset.

The Downfall of Dreaming

I love, love, love making vision boards. Probably too much. I wasn’t allowed to tear up my mom’s magazines, and I didn’t want to ruin mine, so I never made collages as a kid. Now that I have a digital journal and all of the internet for inspiration, with a simple copy and paste, I can make all the collages I want out of anything I want. If I can dream it, I can slap it on my vision board. I’ve even talked about the merits of making a vision board in a past post.

I think my love for vision boards stems from my love of dreaming. As an ADHD-haver, daydreaming about the future comes naturally to me. But lately, my daydreams have become day-nightmares. All I can think about is how things are probably going to go wrong eventually, no matter how hard I try to avert disaster. These anxieties range from small in the grand scheme of things (like me not getting my internship) to really fucking enormous (like “The Handmaid’s Tale” coming true and me and all my queer friends get lynched).

It’s hard for me to see a light at the end of the tunnel that isn’t a racing freight train. I want so badly to control the future, but I know it’s simply not possible. I just wish I could fast-forward and know that everything turns out the way I want it to. That I will have my successful music therapy career and happy life with my two soulmates and our child, and we will be safe from all the evils of the world.

Maybe the trick isn’t to stop dreaming altogether, but to dream a little more loosely. Instead of planning everything out meticulously, as I tend to do, maybe leave a little wiggle room for when things don’t go my way. I might not get the internship I want, but I can always apply for different ones. Perhaps I’ll have to move out of state temporarily, but I’m blessed with a wife who’s willing to travel with me and the means to do so. And even if the very worst does happen—

—well, I haven’t thought that far ahead. I guess I have to come to terms with the fact that when it’s my time to go, it’s my time to go. It’s a reality everyone has to face at some point. I don’t want to live all my life afraid what comes next, but I don’t think I’ll ever be free of the nagging fear of death until it finally comes to take me.

But as much as I want to quit ruminating on the future, I don’t ever want to quit dreaming. Because when you quit dreaming, that’s when you really start dying. I always want to strive for something more, even when I’m at a place of contentment. I never want to settle. There’s always a new mountain to climb or a new sea to sail, and I think that’s what makes the future exciting.