The Chapter is Over, But the Story is Not

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.

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.

With All My Soul

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…

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.

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 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.

Not even me.

Back in My Body

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.

I’m back in my body, and I’ve never been happier.

In Defense of Taylor Swift: A Music Therapy Perspective

Taylor, Taylor, Taylor — I don’t even have to say her last name, and we all know who I’m writing about. Leave it to Ms. Swift to take one of the most common English-language names and claim it as her own.

Full disclosure: I am a Swiftie, though I’m not one of the crazy stans. I won’t say every single song she’s ever written is a masterpiece. I won’t even deny that she has some problematic elements (although in her defense, she has apologized for some of these transgressions, even retroactively changing the lyrics of one of her songs). She definitely had a leg up getting started as the daughter of a wealthy businessman. Still, even if she hadn’t been born into her charmed life, her talents as a songwriter and performer would have certainly been noticed by the industry one way or another. There’s no denying her talent for crafting catchy, relatable music.

And that’s what I’m here to talk about.

I have probably twelve clients I see regularly as part of my internship, and while their tastes vary drastically from person to person, there’s always one constant — Taylor Swift. She’s on every single client’s playlist. Some of her songs are used as lyric analyses for clients processing events and emotions. Some are used for “fill-in-the-blank” style singalongs, like “Karma” or “Mean.” A few of her songs, like “You Need to Calm Down,” are simple enough to play with boomwhackers, or giant tubes meant to produce a certain note when you smack them against something.

Preferably not your music therapist’s head, thank you.

And I think there’s a reason why her music is so ubiquitous in the music therapy world.

You see, it might sound weird, but I often look back wistfully to a time when music was less fractured, when everyone listened to the same five radio stations in their area. You knew that as you sang along to Michael Jackson being spun by your favorite DJ, there were hundreds of other people in your city singing along. These days, there are so many microgenres and independent artists, there’s no guarantee anyone else in the world is listening to the same song as you at any given time. For better or worse, there’s no such thing as monoculture, which means there’s no universally beloved artist anymore. And that means in this day and age, there are no real rock stars.

But then there’s Taylor.

This woman is the closest we still have to the true definition of a rock star. She’s our generation’s Freddie Mercury. Young or old, male or female, black or white — chances are you like Taylor’s music to some extent. And that makes her invaluable in music therapy.

As a music therapy intern, my iPad is chock full of Swift songs, and I keep having to add more as my clients request them. There’s something about her music that captivates people on a deeply personal level, and I’m constantly finding creative ways to use it for therapeutic purposes. There’s no other artist whose music reaches the masses on this level with such consistency, and it’s actually pretty inspiring to witness. The power of music is nothing short of miraculous, and no one seems to embrace that fact quite like Taylor (who, I should add, donated a music therapy program to a children’s hospital).

Something tells me she would have been a great music therapist in another life.

She’d play a mean QChord, that’s for sure.

How My Parents Convinced Me to NOT Become a Doctor

I’m about three weeks into my internship now. I don’t know why I’m shocked. I guess I assumed I’d spontaneously combust before I got this far, but here I am, actually doing the damn thing.

It hasn’t been an easy road, but at least I don’t have to go it alone. My wife’s been so supportive and understanding, cheering me on from the sidelines (well, from the couch in our Airbnb). Sometimes when it’s especially stressful, she puts on kids’ shows to cheer me up. Today, she put on Bluey, which is her go-to for wholesome entertainment.

The episode she chose was “Dragon,” where the titular puppy’s family draws and narrates a fairytale adventure. The rest of the family is floored when its matriarch reveals her secret talent — she can really draw. While the dad struggles to draw a simple stick-figure donkey, the mom illustrates a beautiful horse companion for her character in the story. A flashback reveals the true reason she’s so good at art — her own mother encouraged her when she was a child.

“Doesn’t that remind you of us?” my wife said. “We’re good at what we do because our parents encouraged us too.”

You see, I wasn’t always going to be a music therapist. When I first signed up for college courses as a high school senior, I had my mind made up. I was going to be a cardiologist. I liked to tell people I was doing it because my dad had a heart attack and I wanted to help other people like him, but the real reason was because my boyfriend’s best friend’s dad was a cardiologist and he was like, really rich and powerful. So I decided I was going to be a pre-med student.

But fate had other plans.

The night I went to orientation and declared my major, my parents walked in on me practicing guitar. They sat me down and lovingly told me that if I went down the med school path, I’d be wasting my talents. They told me I had a future in music, be it as a therapist, professor, or rock star. Screw the money and prestige — they encouraged me to follow my passion instead.

Which makes my parents the first in the history of human civilization to convince their child to *not* be a doctor.

So I called up the university right away and told them I’d made a mistake. And that’s how I ended up studying classical guitar instead of, I don’t know, anatomy and crap.

Music hasn’t been an easy road, and I almost gave up multiple times. There were the times I dropped out of the music therapy program. There was the time my own pastor told me I wasn’t a good enough guitarist to perform on stage. There was even a time I almost gave up on playing music entirely after my first real band broke up. But each and every time it got difficult, I went back to that conversation with my mom and dad, and I remembered why it is I was put on this planet — to make the world a brighter place through music. And I pressed on.

There will be times during this internship where I’ll want to give up. But I have so much support and so much love in my life. It’s why I’m able to do what I do. I still remember the pride in my dad’s eyes when he’d tell everyone he’d meet about how his seventh grader could write and perform her own music. That kind of stuff sticks with you. I want to make him proud.

I’m going to finish this internship and make it as a music therapist, even if it kills me.

It’s the Final Countdown! (Doodoo Doo Doooooo)

My last post was very cynical, and perhaps rightfully so. The world is on fire, after all. Literally, if you consider the fact that it’s almost January and it has yet to truly snow in my dear old home of Michigan, a land renowned for its wintery scenery. We had a white Christmas, though!

Outside of global catastrophes like climate change, though, life’s been pretty good, if hectic. This is my final week in Michigan before my big move to Indiana, which still doesn’t feel entirely real. The wife and I have been scrambling trying to get things in order before we leave. We bought my car, for one, which feels nice. I own a car. And like, not a shitty one. It feels good, man.

I don’t know if I’m ready to live so far from everyone and everything I know. The closest I came to anything of this caliber was my failed move to Florida after my life in Michigan imploded following the implosion of my old band and my failure to procure a big girl job with my newly minted journalism degree (which is about as useful to me as an expired car wash coupon). I moved back after a miserable month of flying roaches, nonstop tropical rainstorms, and a sad existence as a Sonic carhop.

Roller skating carhop in the 1950s. | Vintage photos, Vintage ... — Which would have been worth it if I got to wear a cute lil outfit for it.

But I have a good feeling about this move. The internship at Mainstay Music Therapy will be a rewarding one I feel, and one that will likely prepare me for my work in the field. I worked my ass off to procure this internship, and I’ll be damned if I don’t make the best of it. I’ve learned most of the songs off the repertoire list, I’ve refreshed my memory on the basics of music therapy, and now all that’s left for me to do is jump in and get my feet wet in the real world.

We’ll be staying at a quaint AirBNB for the extent of the internship, an upstairs apartment inside a fanciful green historic home in downtown Fort Wayne, and I’m pretty excited to make this little place a home for the next six months.

If I’m gonna leave my comfort zone, I’m gonna do it in style.

I’ve also been scoping out the local hotspots on Instagram. There’s a coffee shop inside a conservatory, a few different local stores that look promising, and even a gay bar. That’s right — apparently Fort Wayne has a surprisingly robust lesbian scene. Will this be the arc where my wife finally finds another partner? I hope so — this polyamory thing feels very unbalanced with me having multiple partners and my wife having no one aside from me. Which is a damn shame, as she’s absolutely adorable and deserves an entire harem of cute girls by her side.

My biggest hope for this new chapter is for me to figure out what I’m doing with the rest of my life. The dream is to open my own private practice akin to Mainstay in the Detroit area. I know it’ll take a lot of work, and I’m determined to make it happen. “Determined” — that’s the word I wrote as my “word of the year” for 2024, and it feels right. I’m determined to get through this internship, pass the board examination, and get my career off the ground. Maybe I’ll go back and get my master’s degree. Maybe I’ll work in the field for a bit at a school or hospital or another practice. Maybe I’ll jump right in and start working as a free agent. There are so many possibilities, and I’m determined to make something work. As a wise man once said, “success is my only motherfuckin’ option, failure’s not.”

I’ll maintain this blog while I’m in Indiana to keep y’all updated on the goings-on of my life. I can’t promise consistency, but this corner of the internet is where you can continue to expect to see the musings and observations of Jessa Joyce, whoever it is she’s becoming. I hope she’s becoming something great, and I hope this move will be the stepping stone she needs to realize her power.

Here’s to a new year, a new state, and a new adventure.

Cartwheeling Into the Wild Unknown

I begin this post with good news.

I got my dream internship.

Wait, I didn’t say that loud enough.

I got my dream internship!

I started my journey to find a decent internship despondent and forlorn that my original plan had failed. I bet all I had on the only internship that was a. local and b. not hospice, only to be let down in the end. It was back to the drawing board for me when my professor suggested a private practice in Fort Wayne, Indiana. It’s not in Michigan, she said, but it would be the perfect fit for me. And the more I researched the place, the more I realized she was right! It was almost exactly what I envisioned my own private practice would be like one day, with a diverse range of clientele with many different diagnoses and goals.

Still, it wouldn’t be easy uprooting my entire life. Hesitantly, I applied for the Indiana internship as well as a local hospice, the “safe” option, despite not being what I wanted to pursue in my career. After getting let down by the previous internship site, I figured I shouldn’t put all my eggs into one basket again. I got interviews with both — on the same day, no less — and then the waiting game began. I was beginning to wonder if either of the sites would accept me, or if I’d never get an internship and be doomed to be a pharmacy technician forever.

But then, within a day of each other, both sites got back to me — and this time, with good news! I’d been offered an internship by both the private practice and the hospice. Now I had a choice to make — do I do the hospice and stay in Metro Detroit, or do I take a risk and move to Indiana for six months?

I’ll admit it wasn’t an easy choice. I knew the internship director at the hospice — we’d worked together before. I know the area and all the people here. My wife and I would be able to hang onto our day jobs for extra support. And we wouldn’t have to offload most of our belongings and move into an extended-stay hotel or AirBnb. But something was pulling me toward the Indiana site, crazy as it seemed. It wasn’t the practical option, but perhaps it was a risk worth taking.

I accepted the Indiana internship.

So now we’re contemplating how to execute this move as smoothly as possible, looking into potential lodging and Uhauls and how the hell we’re going to get our medication through it all because God forbid I go through the internship process without my Adderall. It’s going to take hard work and sacrifice, but I’m willing to do everything I can to make this happen. I’ve never felt so strongly about anything. Maybe leaping into the great unknown is what I need to do in order to truly live out my passion and make a difference in people’s lives through music therapy. After all, no one’s ever changed the world by playing it safe.

I’m ready for whatever comes next, and I can’t wait to take you all along for the ride.

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.

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.