Once I was married, I couldn’t write || my music just stopped || my voice vanished ||

I still wrote songs… for my students at school, or for the church, or little candid ditties for my babies. It was my profession. I can always deliver.

But not… not my, uninhibited, devil-may-care, music.

I used to write every day. Notebooks full. And I would record. And I would perform. And I would share. And I knew my mind. And I felt seen. Understood. Because there are just some things I can’t say without the music.

But then suddenly… there were things I couldn’t say. How do I say: I felt lonely on our honeymoon. How do I say: I’m really upset that you didn’t tell me you had outstanding debt. How do I say: I don’t care that you’re smoking… it hurts that you’re lying. How do I say: every night you go to sleep to your phone. Not me. Why won’t you wake up with me? Why can’t you enjoy a walk with me? Why do I feel so incredibly alone?

That stuff. The devil definitely cares.

If I sing… It’ll be that stuff.