Being the Light, Even in the Dark
As a recovering overachiever, I can admit—sometimes, in all the striving, planning, and doing, I’ve lost sight of my why. It faded, like a smudge on a fogged-up mirror—until something jolted me, bringing it back into focus.
Looking back, I realize this pattern started long ago. From an early age, I learned to shrink myself, to stay out of the way, to prioritize keeping things manageable for everyone else. Growing up in a single-parent home, I watched my mom navigate life with little support. I saw her struggle, and without ever being asked, I made myself small—shifting from a feisty kid to someone quiet and self-sufficient.
By middle school, that instinct—to protect others at my own expense—was already ingrained. So when my piano teacher crossed boundaries, I didn’t tell my mom. Not because she wouldn’t believe me—I knew she would—but because I knew she wouldn’t know what to do. So I stayed silent and quit piano.
Years later, when an older man on my bus made me uncomfortable, I finally spoke up. And I was right- my mom did her best, but she didn’t have the tools to know how to respond.
At that moment, I understood: I was the only one who could truly protect myself.
Fast Forward to Now
We all know the world feels heavy right now, and after a particularly difficult day in the news cycle, I was feeling defeated—helpless, even. But the next morning, I had a music therapy session scheduled. So I set my feelings aside, took a deep breath, and showed up.
I roared like a dinosaur. I buzzed like a bee. I did the hokey pokey and turned myself around. The kids sang, danced, and laughed without hesitation. It almost felt like a celebration—pure, unfiltered joy.
One little girl, though, stayed quiet, curled up on her teacher’s lap, watching from a safe distance. But halfway through, something shifted.
She walked up to me—without a word—and slipped her tiny hand into mine.
I hadn’t even noticed her move. I just felt her little hand in mine.
For the rest of the session, every time I stepped away to play a song or pass out instruments, she found her way back, taking my hand again. Quietly. Steadily. As if she had decided: This is safe. She is safe.
And I had to hold back tears.
Because in that moment, I realized something that shook me to my core:
These children felt safe with me.
Safe.
That word feels foreign to me. It’s a feeling I don’t think I’ve ever truly had for myself. A feeling I yearn for, but one that seems more elusive the older I get.
And yet, somehow, I am able to provide it for others.
Maybe, for now, that has to be enough.
Maybe that’s how we get through the dark times—not by waiting for our own light to return, but by being the light for someone else.
This is My Why
It’s why I do this work. It’s why I push past my own fear of being seen and heard. Because every time I step onto a stage or into a room, I hope to create a space where at least one person feels safe enough to embrace their truth.
So if you’ve been feeling lost, if the weight of the world feels too heavy, if you’re still searching for your own sense of safety—just know this:
Even when you can’t see the light, you can still be the light.
And sometimes, that’s enough to change everything.
Here’s to creating those spaces for one another. Here’s to standing in the darkness, hand in hand.
Because even when the path ahead feels uncertain, we can still choose to be the light that guides the way—both for ourselves and for each other.
