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

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, and Part Nine

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

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

Enter The Eastern Echo.

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

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

But we still had work to do.

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

And so, I wrote the poop article.

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

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

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

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

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

Confessions of a Manic Pixie Dream Girl

I was scrolling through a certain accursed social media app when once again, I saw some bullshit. Which is how most of my posts on here begin, in all fairness. I’m starting to think I just love self-sabotage.

Anyways, the incel BS of the day is this meme:

My first instinct was the kneejerk “Oh, this is some ‘girls just wanna be independent blue-haired sluts nowadays instead of perfect blonde housewives and babymakers’ trad nonsense.” That community tends to have a low opinion of blue-haired girls in particular for some reason. Probably because they’re all gay and want nothing to do with you. Kind of like a certain formerly blue-haired blogger I know.

Pictured: gay and wants nothing to do with you

But what if that’s not the intention of this meme? What if there is some valid criticism to the Ramona Flowers archetype?

The Manic Pixie Dream Girl is a character that appears in film and other media to shake up the life of a (usually awkward and dweeby) everyman protagonist. She’s energetic, bubbly, kind of awkward but in a more charming way than the everyman protagonist, and her entire purpose in the narrative is to get said protagonist out of his shell. You know the type. I could put a picture of Zooey Deschanel here…

…and you’d know exactly who I’m talking about.

A gajillion think pieces have been written on why the MPDG archetype is problematic. Some people say the trope is misogynistic, implying the MPDG is intended to be “not like other girls.” Others take issue with the idea that these quirky women need to “save” men in these narratives. Even the creator of the term feels the character type is shallow and cliche. But my criticism of the MPDG comes from a unique place.

Because for a long time, I was the MPDG.

I was lucky (or unlucky) enough to come of age right when the archetype was gaining steam in the cultural zeitgeist. Somehow, almost overnight, all the quirks that made me annoying or weird started coming off as oddly charming, and I had a long list of suitors all throughout college. But none of them lasted, because the very quirks that made me attractive became grating as time wore on.

It’s not my place to diagnose, but many of the MPDGs of pop culture show signs of being ADHD or autistic, like me. And while being neurodivergent is freaking awesome most of the time, it does come with its downsides, and one of those downsides is difficulty in relationships. For example, I find subtle social cues hard to decipher, and makes communication difficult sometimes. Or impulsivity, which is a huge problem for me. It’s cute when you want to go to Taco Bell in the middle of the night, but it’s way less cute when you buy a boat you can’t afford. Which is something I have done.

There’s nothing wrong with portraying neurodiverse folks as love interests in film and TV— in fact, I love to see that kind of representation!The problem occurs when you only show the rainbows and butterflies. Relationships are hard, and doubly so for those of us who are neurodivergent. We’re not cute little one-dimensional characters who exist to spice up your life. We’re real humans, with human emotions and flaws.

I know it’s a cliche to say you don’t deserve me at my best if you can’t handle me at my worst, but it’s your reality when you date a neurodivergent person. We can be great friends and even better lovers, but you have to accept all of us — not just the idealized versions you see in media.

Sunday Morning Coffee: Sometimes You Gotta Flip a Table

Welcome to my inaugural Sunday morning coffee, where I take a spiritual lesson I’m learning and share it for everyone. I’m not going to pretend I’m this enlightened guru or pastor — I’m just a random weirdo with a blog who likes to write about this kind of stuff. But I feel like I can bring an interesting perspective to the metaphorical table when it comes to scripture, spirituality, and the like, being a queer eclectic Christian married to a mostly agnostic Jewish woman.

So I was doomscrolling through my Facebook updates when I noticed a friend posted this:

I don’t even have a witty caption for this.

To say I was livid would be an understatement. My blood is still boiling as I type this, and anyone who knows me will tell you I don’t anger easily. To compare my right and my loved ones’ rights to simply exist as ourselves to the most heinous crime against humanity is fucking disgusting and nearly irredeemable in my eyes. And then I clicked on this so-called friend’s profile. He was a Christian?! This man is claiming the name of Christ while posting shit like this? Nothing short of sickening.

What does the heart of God say about anger? It’s easy to fall back on the “seven deadly sins” as a measure of what’s right and what’s wrong, and wrath is right there in that list. But anger isn’t necessarily wrath. When our rage is directed toward something totally justified, we call it righteous anger. In Matthew 21, Jesus Himself demonstrates this.

Jesus entered the temple courts and drove out all who were buying and selling there. He overturned the tables of the money changers and the benches of those selling doves. “It is written,” he said to them, “‘My house will be called a house of prayer,’ but you are making it ‘a den of robbers.
Matthew 21: 12-13

Maybe we need to start flipping some tables. Maybe we need to start using this anger at how our supposed brothers and sisters in Christ are treating people and cheating people. Maybe we should be calling out posts like the one above when we see them pop up on our timelines. Silence never changed anything. Righteous anger makes us want to speak out for the oppressed and the downtrodden, the “least of these.”

I made the mistake of deleting the person who made that post, because I knew I was going to tear them a new one if I didn’t. But what I should have done was use my anger to call them out, gently but firmly. Anger when unchecked turns into wrath, and things can be said that legitimately hurt others (and hurt our own case in the process). On the other hand, righteous anger, when channeled by a spiritually mature person, can be used for good. Open discussions, engage in debates, and let people see the light of Christ through you. If you have to flip some tables, flip those tables, but remember the person behind them. They’re broken too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was raped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Hanged Man and The Fool

I’ve been trying to get into meditation. That’s no easy feat for me, considering my own psychiatrist admitted I had one of the worst cases of ADHD she’d even seen. But I’ve found certain tools get me into “the zone,” like breathing exercises, yoga, and my personal favorite, tarot.

Tarot is widely used for divination, which is a fancy word for telling the future. I don’t really use it for that purpose much, considering my belief that we create our own futures for the most part. Instead, I use it to gain new perspectives on problems I’m facing and focus in on what I need to work on at the time. It’s a bit like shuffling between 78 tiny therapists, each with their own wisdom, and somehow, the right ones always get pulled whenever I need them.

Usually, I only draw two or three cards, typically a “something to embrace, something to let go of.” But every now and then, I like to use a more intricate spread to really take inventory on how I’m feeling. So yesterday, I got out my gold-plated Art Nouveau cards and tried my first Celtic cross spread. The results were, well, really eerie.

What immediately struck me was the fact that there were only two major arcana cards pulled — the first and the last. The current situation, and the likely outcome. The hanged man, and the fool.

The hanged man is said to appear when you’re at a standstill. He’s literally suspended, and at the moment, I feel like my life has been suspended. As of writing, I’m still waiting to hear back about whether or not I got the internship I really wanted. Should I get it, I will be starting in February, which feels like an impossibly long time from now. Should I not get it, I’ll be back at square one with a different internship, one that will start even later into the next year. Meanwhile, all my friends are already finishing their internships and getting their degrees.

I feel like the hanged man. I feel stuck.

Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever make it through this program. It feels like nothing is progressing, nothing is changing. Funnily enough, the “hopes and fears” card I drew was the ten of swords, a card that symbolizes death more so than the actual death card. Which is the overarching fear, I believe. I’m gonna die before I accomplish everything I want to do, and every second that passes that I don’t have an internship is another second my eventual masters and doctoral degree.

I’d like to think there’s a silver lining, that the fool symbolizes something greater to come. The fool is said to represent new adventures, so maybe once all is said and done, I’ll get to start anew with a career in music therapy. Or maybe my new adventure is something completely different, as much as I loathe the idea that all of this was for naught.

Another one of the lessons of the hanged man is surrender, letting go and trusting that everything will work out for the best. I’ve talked a little about this recently. Well, a lot about this recently. It’s kind of the biggest thing on my mind right now. And it will be until this stupid internship is finally over.

I’m ready for the fool’s journey, whatever it may be. I’m over feeling stuck.

When Will My Life Begin?

I was a senior in high school when Tangled burst into theatres, ushering in a new generation of princesses with uncannily large eyes. Out of all the Disney royals old and new, though, Rapunzel stuck with me as the most “me” of the bunch. We were the same age, and I was significantly blonder and more optimistic at the time, to be fair.

I couldn’t recreate this photo if I tried.

Almost every Disney movie has its “I want” song, and Tangled is no exception. In “When Will My Life Begin,” Rapunzel sings of wanting more from life while performing a variety of mundane tasks. (Which is incidentally how I spend my Saturdays as well.)

How she doesn’t get paint in her hair is the real miracle.

Despite no longer being an eighteen-year-old blonde ingenue like Rapunzel, a lot of days, I still feel like her in this scene. I feel like I’m always in a hurry to reach whatever is next, like I’m never content with where I am in life. Like I’m always waiting for my life to truly begin.

When I was living in the dorms at my university, I felt like I’d be a real adult when I had my own apartment. When I didn’t drive, I felt like I’d be a real adult once I got a car. When I was single, I felt like I’d be a real adult once I had a partner I lived with, or better yet, got married. Now I feel like I’d be a real adult if only I could finish this degree and get a “big girl” job. It’s a vicious cycle of needing more and more to feel “adulty” enough. I’m gonna be a grandma and still not feel like I’ve “made it” as an adult.

In the meantime, I feel like I’m in this neverending state of limbo, caught somewhere between being a girl and a grown woman. I’m always waiting for that next step. I’m never content in whatever stage of life I’m in, which isn’t a good thing, considering the last time I was in a hurry to “grow up,” I got myself into a marriage I knew wasn’t right for me.

There’s something to be said about enjoying the life you’re living now instead of longing for the future (or the past, for that matter). Those little mundane moments will be a memory someday, and maybe you’ll miss those trips to the laundromat when you finally get a house with its own washer and dryer. Maybe you’ll miss studying for exams at your favorite coffeeshop after you graduate. With every new step in life comes more responsibilities, and I know I’ll miss the carefree days im enjoying now once I have kids, even though I want them more than anything.

There’s no such thing as “waiting” for your life to begin. It’s already happening all around you. Savor what you have now, and trust that everything will work itself out. You’ve got your entire life to grow up, so put your hands up and enjoy the ride.

In Search of the Promised Land

This weekend, I’m on a pilgrimage to a faraway land with my wife, Crass.

(Well, two hours away. Which isn’t that far away when you live in the Midwest.)

Kalamazoo, which I swear to God is the name of a real place in Michigan, has been kind to us so far. We decided to travel here for one specific reason — to daydream together about our future lives. Should everything go as planned, this will be our home in the next few years. And I mean, it’s a pretty charming place.

Kalamazoo is, among many other things, home to the only music therapy graduate program in the state. It’s also halfway between Detroit and South Bend, IN, where my girlfriend, Olivia, lives. And when we have Cadence down the road, the Kalamazoo Promise will ensure she gets a free ride to college.

I’m squirming with excitement as I write this from our hotel room. As we passed tattoo shop after tattoo shop, Crass imagined applying for an apprenticeship at one. Walking through the nature preserve in the neighboring city of Portage, we talked about how we’d take our future dog on walks there someday. (The dog would be a Shiba Inu named Sprinkles, natch.) We added so many restaurants to our list of places to try once we move out here, and every thirty seconds or so, I would point out a house — “THAT’S THE ONE!”

I think it’s important to have a healthy sense of what’s realistic when planning for the future, but I also think it’s important to leave a little room to dream. When I was in college, I used to ride my bike through the cute little apartment complex near the ugly dorms I lived in at the time. I wondered what it would be like to have a significant other I lived with in an apartment like that, and maybe a cat. I would dream about writing stuff while lounging on my “corner couch” — the word I used for “sectional” growing up, and the true marker of adult success in my developing brain.

I didn’t get to live in those apartments, but I live somewhere even nicer now, with a cat and my wife. I get to write a personal blog that seems to have a small but dedicated following, which absolutely blows my mind. And not only do I have a corner couch, but we’re planning on getting an even nicer corner couch once we move.

Did I manifest this stuff by dreaming about it hard enough? I don’t know. I’ve been reading a lot about the law of attraction and how you can manifest the things you want through positive thinking. Do I necessarily believe it? I don’t know yet. But I do know thinking positively is way better than wallowing in doubt and self-pity. Maybe there is something valuable in the act of allowing yourself to dream a little.

I pray we end up here in the next few years, but if we don’t, for whatever reason, I know God and the universe will work things out for the best. Being here, though, it honestly feels like we’re dipping our toe into the rest of our lives. I’ve got such a good feeling from this little town with a silly name.

Here’s to you, Kalamazoo.

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

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

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

He could fucking shred.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who’s Jamie?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Waiting is the Hardest Part

Last night was my interview for my dream internship. So much is riding on me getting this position. If I get this internship, I’ll get to graduate by next December, meaning we’ll get to move to Kalamazoo so I can start grad school and perhaps most excitingly, start our family. Should I fail to get this position, I’ll have to either wait another year or move (potentially out of state) for a different internship. Which is a lot to take in.

I just wish I knew one way or another. Like Tom Petty said, the waiting is the hardest part.

I talked in a recent post about how I wish I could fast-forward my life story and know for sure that everything works out the way I planned. I’ve been reading books on things like the law of attraction and how you can manifest the life you want just by imagining it really hard. I hope that’s true, but at the same time, I hope it isn’t, because I’m secretly afraid the second I lose faith, everything will come crashing. If my hopes can manifest good things, surely my anxieties will manifest bad things in turn. That’s how it works, right?

And all I can think about is, if I’m this much of a wreck waiting for news on whether or not I got an internship, imagine how much more of a wreck I’ll be waiting for news of whether or not I have some terminal illness or something.

Is there such a thing as being terminally anxious?

I don’t have a lot of family baggage, but there is one generational curse that’s plagued the women in my family for time immemorial, and that’s anxiety. My grandma was so anxious she rarely ever left the house and consequently never learned to drive. My mom’s better, but not by much. I see how anxious she is and it breaks my heart. She’s scared of heights, bridges, highways, serial killers — she once told me not to date a guy because he looked vaguely like a local murderer who was on the run (it wasn’t him, for what it’s worth). And as much as I’d like to consider myself fearless, I do have things that scare me. One of them is death, and the other is not being able to do everything I want to do before death. So really, I only have one fear, but it’s a whopper.

This internship and the anxiety I’m feeling over it is a microcosm I’m of my bigger fear — that I won’t get to accomplish everything I’ve set out to do. I’m scared if I don’t get this internship, I’ll have to wait another year for it to happen again, and what if I don’t get it then and have to wait another year? What if I can’t have kids by then? What if I’m like, 50 by the time I graduate from grad school? I’ll already be halfway dead, right?

I don’t have an easy antidote for anxiety, and if I did, trust me, I’d sell that shit in a heartbeat and make millions. I guess there’s always Xanax, but you need a prescription for that and that’s too much work. I think the thing that’s helping me is one single affirmation — “What if it all goes right?” We’re so used to telling ourselves it’ll all go wrong, just changing your inner dialogue to something more positive helps alleviate the stress. Will it make the thing you want to happen, happen? Maybe, if you believe in the law of attraction. But it’ll make things easier in the meantime.

I’m holding onto the hope that this internship will come through and I won’t have to uproot my entire life to finish my degree. But if it comes down to it, I know things will work out in the end. God has always provided a way for me in the past, and I don’t see that changing anytime soon. There’s always a way forward, even when the waiting is daunting. You just gotta trust that the universe will catch you as you’re free falling.

Love, Your Mom Friend: A Guide to Growing Up

I think it hit me when my wife brought up yet another youngin’ who latched onto her. You see, for some reason, we attract people in their early 20s. And we’re the ones they turn to when they need advice, or even just an ear.

We’re the mom friends now.

I never thought I’d see the day when we’d be the wise, old, responsible ones in our friendships. Two years ago, we were lazy drunks who contributed nothing of worth to society, who barely scraped by in life. We were the former gifted kid burnouts everyone pities, squandering what little money we had on booze and vapes for a sad little hit of dopamine. It’s a wonder we managed to pay our rent on time. We should have been on the streets.

Now we’re in the gym every other night, and we’re no longer bloated and sick from poisoning ourselves with alcohol. We have a measly savings account, but that’s more than a lot of people our age can say. I’m interviewing for my dream internship tonight, and my wife is preparing to start her costuming business.

I think at some point, you have to get sick of sucking in order to grow. It’s the difference between real adulthood and adolescence (which goes way beyond the teenage years in some people, us included). I get why a lot of folks our age have stagnated, especially due to economic/financial issues. But at some point, staying in this prolonged state of adolescence is just sad. We’re not meant to have our growths stunted. We’re meant for bigger, better things.

How do you reach real adulthood, though? The path is different for everyone, but here are the steps we took to get out of that adolescent rut.

1. Stop Drinking

All together. Even if it’s just for a little while, but I think you’ll find you like yourself more when you’re not guzzling booze every other day. I know I’ve improved significantly as a person since I ditched alcohol. I sleep better, I don’t have weird abdominal pains, I’m actually creative again, and I don’t bitch like a baby at my poor wife who had to deal with my bullshit. There’s a book called The Alcohol Experiment by Annie Grace that I highly recommend. If you do nothing else in this list, at least read this book. It changed my entire perspective on why we drink.

2. Make a Budget

No one likes talking about money, but it’s an important part of everyday life. And if we’re honest, we all like money — we just have a complicated relationship with it. One way to make that relationship a little less tumultuous is to make a budget. Sit down one afternoon with a nice cup of tea (or whatever helps relax you — NOT ALCOHOL) and see where your money is going every month. You might be surprised how much you’re spending in certain areas, and how much you could be saving by not throwing money at Taco Bell three times a week. It might help to hire a financial advisor, but I realize that’s not in everyone’s budget. You can do it yourself with a free hour and a spreadsheet and/or pen and paper, so there’s no excuse to not be doing this!

3. CLEAN YOUR SPACE

“But it will just get dirty again—“ Enough of that nonsense. Imagine if we said “Why eat if we’ll just get hungry again?” You’re a living being, and by living in your house or apartment, it is by extension a part of you. Take a little time every day to tidy up one thing. Just one single thing. Maybe clear off the kitchen counters, or scrub the tub, or do laundry. Just make sure you’re doing ONE thing. And if you keep going after that one thing is finished, don’t stop the momentum! Keep on cleaning until you don’t have it in you to do anything else. Having a clean space will help you feel more relaxed and “at home.” And while we’re at it…

4. Decorate Your Space!

The fun part! Now that you’re an adult, you get to do whatever you want with your home (within reason — don’t get in trouble with your landlord because you tried to set up a pool inside your tiny apartment). Put stuff on the wall that makes you happy. I suggest buying art from local artists and turning your space into your own personal museum. It will make you look really cool and cultured, trust me. Especially if that art’s on a canvas. That screams adult.

5. Get Moving

When we were kids, running and jumping felt right and natural. What happened?! As we step into our new adult bodies, we need movement just as much as we did as kids. It doesn’t need to be structured or have a specific goal in mind. If you want to run a 5k, it’s great to have that as an objective, but even just dancing a little every morning to get the blood flowing is good. I have a routine of waking up early, swimming around a little, and doing 20 minutes of cardio on the elliptical. That helps me stay grounded and focused all day. Find ways to make movement fun again. Play tag with your significant other. Play that Just Dance game I suck at. Take a walk every night and see what sights there are to see near your place. There’s a whole wide world to explore!

And most importantly, don’t be too hard on yourself. Growing up is a process, and there are some aspects of adulthood I have yet to master. But as your mom friend, this is me telling you that you gotta step up your adulting game, because you deserve to live an amazing, fulfilling, grown up life.