Back to School Blues

Tomorrow is my first day of school. Well, back to school. I say “back to school” as if I haven’t tried and failed to do the school thing again three times since I initially graduated with my music and journalism degrees in 2015.

But I’m nothing if not persistent.

I’m trying to stay optimistic in the face of everything that is happening and will happen — financial hardship, music therapy falling through, the new administration taking over and probably borking the country, and probably a million other things I’m not actively worrying about but are still looming in the horizon. I’ve always been an optimist, maybe to a fault. I want to believe the best in everything and in everyone, but I’m learning that I’m a lot less optimistic when it comes to believing in myself. And why should I be? I’ve let myself down so many times, part of me is wondering how long this endeavor will last before I inevitably fuck it up.

That’s not to say I don’t like Jessa Joyce — I’m quite a huge fan of hers. But I feel like she’s just an image of that perfect, badass version of myself I put out there. I love who she represents to me, an ideal self in a way. Yet underneath Jessa Joyce’s glitter and confidence lives a different me, one that’s not really sure she knows what she’s doing. I wrote a song about it recently, actually:

I used to know exactly what I wanted to be

But now I really don’t know what I want anymore

Who am I supposed to be

When all my flaws catch up to me?

I was the brightest star in the whole damn sky

Right until I flew too high

When I wrote those words, I was reflecting on that version of myself, the one that stands on shaky ground as she realizes she’s at a crossroads. Do I go all-in on pursuing rock stardom and all of its trappings? Do I start a music academy? A recording studio? Both? Do I take up the art of luthiery and build guitars? Do I continue my education and become a music professor? Do I work as a sound guy for a church I’m probably too gay to attend? All of the above? None of the above? What if I can’t choose, or worse, choose the wrong thing, like I did with music therapy? I can’t afford to waste another 12 years studying something that I don’t even follow through with. Starting school again will be a good first step, but I can’t ignore the nagging feeling that I’m going to screw this up again somehow.

In short, I really don’t have it all together.

Earlier today, I was talking to my bandmates about an acquaintance of mine who just seems really excited to know me. Which is flattering, I have to admit, but I wonder how well that person really knows me. Because if he did know me, he would know I’m not anything to look up to. If anything, I’m a dumpster fire masquerading as a sexy rocker chick who knows what she wants and knows exactly how to get it. But at the end of the day, I’m still the same old dumpster fire.

Believe it or not, I’m not writing this from a state of depression. I’m actually having experiencing hypomania, the bipolar state where you feel REALLY GOOD but not so good that you drop $500 you don’t have on a boat (thanks, mania). I’ve been in a surprisingly good mood actually. It’s just I’ve done the “back to school” song and dance enough times to understandably be a bit wary. Is this really the path for me? Can I forge my own way and start a career I can be proud of? Will I be able to make enough money to support my partners and our future family? One thing’s for sure — I’m going to work my ass off to make this thing happen. If I keep grinding, eventually it’ll pay off, right? Right?

I hope so. I want to believe in me again.

New Year, New Jessa (Hopefully)

So, it’s New Years Eve.

I’m writing this from a Starbucks during the period of time between my teaching gig and my trivia hosting job tonight. But this time last year, I was expecting to be a music therapist, working my big girl job and making bank. Obviously that did not happen, and to be honest, a lot of goals I had set for myself last New Years remain unaccomplished. But I’m not sad — the failures from this past year led me to where I am now, and I actually think I like where I am now better than where I would have been had I earned my MT-BC.

Still, there’s something powerful about setting new goals for a new year. I love a good intention-setting ritual. It feels almost witchy in a way, banishing the negative energy of the past year and manifesting a bright future ahead. So let me put on my witch hat and brew up some fresh goals for 2025!

1. Release a Full-Length Album

Would you believe I have an entire album’s worth of material I’m just sitting on? If I’m honest, I probably have several albums’ worth of material I’m just sitting on. And what good is music if no one’s there to hear it? I’d love to get at least one real album out into the world this year. I’d love to actually give it some proper promotion and go all-in on making it in music, now that I’m not bothering with music therapy anymore. I’ll be learning new recording and production techniques when I start classes as well, which will come in handy as I typically record everything myself. Speaking of which…

2. Finish My Coursework With an A or B

Like I mentioned, I’m going back to school for audio engineering. I have some friends in the program, including my dear bandmate, who I’ve observed many times become absolutely panicked over a particular class project. So I’m not going to hold myself to an impossible standard. I typically shoot for straight As, as ever since I was a child (I falsely believed) my parents demanded it from me. (They actually didn’t care that much — I put the expectations on myself because of freaking course I did.) But if I get a B in my classes for this program, I’ll be content.

3. Start a New Band

I love wakeupjamie, but it’s difficult to commute back and forth to practice when practice is literally two hours away. I have Syrin now too, but our frontperson writes all the music. So I want to start a another band that’s based here in Kalamazoo and plays the songs I write. I have a few potential leads as far as players, and I want to start playing shows by the end of next year. I’m still toying with band names, so if you got any good ones, leave ‘em in the comments!

4. Get Back Down to 140

I started drinking heavily in my mid-late 20s, which led to me absolutely ballooning to over 200 pounds. I’m not one to fat shame, especially not myself, but my fat was because of what was turning into a serious health problem, and it was causing even more health problems for me. I couldn’t get up the stairs to my own apartment without getting winded. Now that I’ve stopped drinking, I’m back down to 160, but I want to get back to the weight my old personal trainer said was optimal for my particular body, which is around 140. I’ve already cut back on calories quite a bit (thanks to ADHD meds murdering my appetite), but I want to keep walking regularly and incorporate more physical activity into my routine this year.

5. Start a Side Hustle

I’ve been trying to figure out new creative ways to make a little extra money for a while, but nothing seems to stick for long. So this year, I want to find something I love that I wouldn’t mind monetizing. I need the cash more than ever now that I’m starting classes again and don’t have access to any more student loans. I’m thinking of starting streaming again, but I’ll need to figure out a set schedule for that, because ADHD. I want to experiment with new ways to get my music out there though, and streaming might be a lucrative endeavor if I promote it right.

6. Write a Story (OF ANY LENGTH)

Sometimes I forget that along with music, writing was also one of my first loves. I finally finished and published the first story arc of Venona on here, but nothing really came of it. I do want to keep dabbling in fiction, though, as I truly enjoy making up stories and telling them to anyone who will listen. Maybe I’ll write more Venona, or maybe I’ll finally let it die. All I know is I can’t keep trying to force myself to write lengthy novels when I clearly don’t have the attention span for that, so I’m going to set this goal accordingly. Any length story will do. It just needs to get published, either on here or maybe even by someone else. I’ll have to research how to do all that, but I’d love to see my writing in print again.

…and those are my objectives for this year. I intentionally set reasonable, accomplishable goals for myself, because as every self-help book I’ve ever read emphasizes that your goals need to be SMART (specific, measurable, achievable, relevant, and time-bound). So, human who is reading this, what are your goals for 2025? Feel free to drop those in the comments along with the best band names you can think of.

I’m cautiously optimistic about 2025, but optimistic nonetheless.

Reflecting on the Year That Almost Broke Me

As of writing, we are halfway through December, which means the new year is lurking. As everyone prepares to sing “Auld Lang Syne” and kiss a stranger, now is the optimal time to look back at the previous year and reflect on how things went.

And damn, did they go awry this year.

2024 was a trash-fire year for me, rivalling 2015 for the title of Worst Year of Jessa’s Life. 2015, of course, was the year I simultaneously got my heart broken by my crush of four years, graduated and realized I wasn’t going to find a job in my field and would probably never find success, and also dealt with some familial and health issues. But this year was honestly worse in every way. Like, this has literally been the worst one.

To think of how optimistic I was at the start of the year too. I was getting ready to begin the internship I’d been working toward for over a decade. I had just moved to Fort Wayne and was expecting an adventure. And what I got was a soul-crushing internship experience that I had to leave for the sake of my own mental health. I was going to drive my car into the fucking river if I cried one more time at that godforsaken clinic. I couldn’t handle the pressure. I failed.

Tail between our legs, we retreated to Niles, MI, where I could at least be close to my girlfriend. But we had trouble finding paid work in the area, our savings were dwindling, and we couldn’t afford to keep living out of AirBNBs. So my wife decided we should check out Kalamazoo instead, as we’d previously talked about it and decided it was a good central location between our family in Detroit, our new friends in Fort Wayne, and my girlfriend in South Bend.

Moving to Kalamazoo was the best decision we could have made, as the only good things to happen this year happened because of the move. My wife and I got involved in the local karaoke scene and made a lot of friends, which is new for us. We’d been shut-ins for most of our marriage. I decided that since music therapy was off the table, I’d pursue a different dream, one of becoming a producer and audio engineer. So I applied to the local university and actually made it into the competitive multimedia arts technology program. And I got back into doing what I love for a living — teaching music.

I realize I started this blog post very doom-and-gloom, but the more I write, the more I realize this year wasn’t so heck. Sure, we’re still broke and I still wasted so much time and money on a career that will never happen. Then there’s all the political unrest and the fact that the jabronis who won the election want to make my marriage illegal. But if there’s anything I’ve learned this year about myself, it’s that I’m resilient as fuck. When shit hits the fan, I’ll figure something else out. That’s what I do best.

Looking back at 2024, I don’t know how I could have survived without the people I’ve met this year in Fort Wayne and Kalamazoo. I never realized how empty my life was without my own little “tribe” of sorts. We’re social creatures by nature and we need each other. Maybe I’ll never be a music therapist. Maybe I’ll be broke for the rest of my life. But when I’m surrounded by the amazing folks I’ve met this year, well, you can’t buy that feeling. My Little Pony had it right — friendship is magic.

The real music therapy degree was the friends we made along the way.

I don’t know what awaits me in 2025, but I’m confident I can face anything now. This year absolutely took the wind out of my sails, but I’m going to keep persisting. I’m ready.

Confessions of a Failed Music Therapist

Some nights are harder than others.

I feel like everyone has their “one that got away,” be it a love interest or a lost friend or missed opportunity. For me, it’s music therapy.

I’ve written extensively on here about my journey through the music therapy program at Eastern Michigan University and the subsequent disaster that was my internship in Fort Wayne. The internship was traumatic in a lot of ways and really disillusioned me to the world of music therapy. It’s still a raw wound, if I’m honest.

Tonight, I broke down. I don’t know what my direction in life is anymore. I found myself excited at the prospect of working in a factory. Just like my dad before me. I know he wanted better for me. He wanted me to get that master’s, get that doctorate, and never have to set foot in a factory. He envisioned an easier life for me. He wanted me to break out of the blue-collar trap my family has been stuck in for generations. He believed in me so hard, he stayed alive to see me graduate.

Now, it’s hard to believe I’ll ever be cut out for anything aside from menial physical labor. I feel like this is my destiny. I’ve perished any dreams of becoming a music therapist, or a professor, or anything else to be honest. I’ll be lucky if I make enough money to have a family of my own someday.

I feel like the title of “failed music therapist” will haunt me forever, like a scarlet letter. I have this vision of me on my death bed, awaiting the end, and some well-intentioned nurse who knows I was a musician in a past life sends in a music therapist to comfort me. But I won’t be comforted. Instead, it’ll rip open the same wound that pains me now. I hate this for me. I don’t want to live with regrets, but I feel like I have no other choice. Music therapy has been ruined forever for me.

I’m tearing up at the gym writing this. That’s where I work now, and while it’s not a glamorous or esteemed position (and the pay is abysmal), there are perks. Just now, one of my regulars snuck up on me to startle me, and we had a good chat. I think talking to me makes her day — she takes care of her dad all day and seems lonely. Maybe that’s the best I can do, just try to bring a little light to wherever I end up working. Maybe someday I’ll bring in my guitar and serenade people as they come in, I don’t know. Maybe music therapy didn’t work out because something else will, and this entire thing will no longer eat at me. Maybe my cover of Chappell Roan’s “Good Luck, Babe!” will take off and catapult me to rock stardom, or at least allow me to make enough money from my music to have a decent enough life.

I have nothing left but this reckless optimism that won’t fucking die. And that’s gotta count for something.

Kalamazoo, I Choose You

It’s amazing how fast things turn around when you’re actually following the path the universe wants you to follow.

This time last week, we were in an AirBNB in a nowhere town on the Indiana border with no prospects as far as apartment-hunting goes and little going on job-wise. My wife Crass was working a dead-end apprenticeship that had her answering phones and not doing much else. I was a music teacher in name only, since I couldn’t recruit students fast enough to pay the bills. We were running out of money fast. If something didn’t change, we were going to end up having to move home with our parents — or worse, on the streets.

Then, Crass suggested something wild.

“Let’s go to Kalamazoo.”

Which is the name of a real place, for those readers who are not from the Murder Mitten.

And it made sense. We’d toyed with either Kalamazoo or Chicago in the past, and Kalamazoo seemed like the best choice. It’s in Michigan, so we wouldn’t have to change our hard-won Medicaid insurance to another state. It’s also conveniently almost equidistant from Detroit (where our parents live) and South Bend (where my other partner, Olivia, lives). There’s a robust art scene, and Western Michigan University is there, so I can go to grad school when I’m ready. It seemed so perfect, something had to go wrong.

But it didn’t. In fact, as soon as we decided on Kalamazoo, things started falling together. We found an apartment complex that wouldn’t judge us for not having any recent paystubs and would give us a chance based on credit history alone. And it turned out to be a three-bedroom townhouse bigger than anything we’ve ever rented before! Crass will have space for her art and merch manufacturing machines, and I’ll have a room for a studio and all my instruments. When we went job hunting, Crass almost immediately lucked into a managerial position at an office supplies store, and I managed to impress the folks at Guitar Center enough that they’ll likely hire me on in the next few days. I also have an interview for a dispensary coming up next week. Gotta capitalize on Michigan’s weed-friendliness, ya know?

Did I say “Murder Mitten”? I meant Marijuana Mitten.

I was excited to start a life in the Michiana region at the suggestion of Olivia, but the truth is, not a lot is going on as far as the Michigan side goes. I love South Bend and Mishawaka — but I can’t live there without losing my insurance (and the protection of Big Gretch, who recently posted a video in support of the queer community). Nothing was working out there, and I was languishing without any direction. I’m still mourning the fact that I won’t be able to see my darling Olivia every day the way I’ve gotten used to these past few weeks, but I need to be somewhere where I can be the best version of myself. For me, and for her, and for Crass, and for our future family.

This has been a rough year. We dropped everything to move to Fort Wayne for an internship that didn’t pan out, and I found myself reevaluating my entire trajectory when music therapy turned out to be something I couldn’t see myself doing my whole life. When that failed, we retreated to that AirBNB in hopes of starting anew. When that failed, I almost lost all hope for the future. I didn’t think I’d ever get the career and the family I’d dreamed of. I was in a dark place. But there’s a light at the end of the tunnel, and I’m pretty sure it’s not a freakin’ freight train this time, because I’m sick of getting run over again and again. I’m actually excited for this new chapter and what is hopefully going to be some stability in life. I’ve been so stressed with all these twists and turns lately. I even got my first gray hair!

If I’m gonna go gray at 31, I’m going *all in.*

In other words, I’m cautiously optimistic. I’ve been burned too many times these past six months, but as my therapist always says, “What if it all goes right?” This next step is exactly what I need. And I hope you’ll all be there to watch me finally thrive.

Knowing When to Quit

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.

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.

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.

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.