The In-Between

Note: this post was originally written and shared via social media on May 2, 2023.

As many of you know, I was impacted by the Spotify layoffs at the end of January. After the initial processing period and stages of grief, I had no choice but to face the massive question mark standing in front of me. 

When you decide to take something you love and turn it into your career, there’s no going back. Those two things will always be intrinsically linked, and it becomes increasingly hard to separate your professional life from your personal passions. Now, I’m incredibly grateful to have a career in music, and I don’t take it lightly. But the high highs come with low lows, and losing my shiny new job at everybody’s dream company absolutely crushed me. There was a moment where I didn’t care about music, and that terrified me. Not only because it meant that I’d have to start over in my career but because it had become such a huge part of my identity. On one hand, it was almost funny how wildly off-brand it was for me to just not have a job. But on the other hand, I had spent the last decade cultivating this persona as a high-achieving, passion-driven, career-obsessed music lover, and suddenly, I wasn’t sure if I was any of those things. 

Once the dust settled, I realized that even without a job, my life still felt full. My wonderful partner, our dog, the beautiful place we live, my supportive friends, and trips both big and small all easily filled the hole that work had left behind. I paid more attention to how things felt and what they brought to my day. I visited my family. I took long walks during the work day. I ate a LOT of sympathy cheese. I skied for the first time in years. I went to Guatemala for three weeks. I got up. I got up again. I kept going. And eventually, I listened to music. 

I love what my career in music has brought to my life, and I’m so beyond excited and grateful that I get to continue on this path. But this experience has been a sobering reminder of the delicate balance that must exist so you don’t lose yourself. Clock out when your day is over. Enjoy your weekends and holidays. Take your PTO. No really, take your PTO. Try new things. Cultivate your hobbies. Spend time with loved ones, and make sure you’re high up on that list. There is no reward for not living your life. Work hard, but keep the fleeting nature of it all in perspective. 

We often talk about the importance of your network, but the emphasis on growing and maintaining it always felt forced to me, like I was a farmer tending to my connection crops. I’ve typically considered myself not great at it—I let too much time go by in between conversations, and I get self-conscious about anything that feels too transactional. However, this experience has taught me that connections are made and impressions are forged not through big networking events and formal elbow-rubbing but through the in-between moments of how you show up to the world every day. Take pride in what you do, lend a hand when you can, and go out of your way to be good to others. Not because you’re expecting to get something out of it, but because it’s the right thing to do. We will all find ourselves in need of support from our community at some point, and I was very humbled by the response from mine. Thank you to everyone who reached out, shared kind words, sent me open roles, or offered to help in some way. It truly meant more to me than you could ever know. 

The past three months have been a whirlwind, and I’ve felt every emotion imaginable. But what came as a pleasant surprise to me was that the overwhelming one was grateful. Grateful for all the things that went right and everything that helped me find my footing on shaky ground. I’m lucky in so many ways, and I’m holding space for the staggering amount of others who have had to go through this experience without some of the privileges that I have. I believe that if a door is opened for you, it’s your responsibility to hold it open for someone else, especially if they’ve got their hands full. If I can help, let me know. 

I’ve been ruminating on the phrase “don’t look back in anger” for some time now as a way to reframe the way I memorialize objectively difficult events, and I’m holding onto it as I close this chapter and move onto the next. Hopefully it resonates with someone out there too. 

Thanks again to everyone who has shown up for me over the last few months. I love you all, and I’m excited to share what’s next!

It’s Okay

I was on the phone with my grandmother and mentioned how utterly bizarre this all was. To see the world shut down and be cut off from any and all physical contact. No offices, no restaurants, no bars, no traveling. I couldn’t think of anything to even remotely compare it to. 

And she says, “You know what? Neither can I. And I’m a lot older than you.” 

I laughed but it drove home how completely uncharted this all is. We’ve had to figure out a new normal logistically but have we thought much about our benchmarks for our personal lives? No one in living history can truthfully say what the right way to respond is. What we perceive as normal thoughts, feelings, and behaviors just don’t apply here. And it’s okay. 

It’s okay if you’re having drastically different experiences from your friends. If your feed is filled with couples and your group chat is making virtual double dates but the only person you’ve spoken to is the man running your favorite tent at the farmers market—arguably the highlight of your week. No one’s fault. That’s just where the cards fell. 

It’s okay if some days you’re filled with energy and purpose and tackle the world from the safety of your home, but other days you can barely get off the floor. Gravity pressing down on you with the same pressure you’ve put on your medication of choice. What the doctor ordered, be it coffee or something stronger. Not every day is going to be good, but at least there’s a new one every 24 hours. 

It’s okay if this has pushed you back to a place you thought you’d never return to, resurfaced things you thought you were over. 

It’s okay to be struggling even harder if you’re doing this alone. It doesn’t make you weak to realize how much you need other people and wish you had someone by your side. It makes you human. 

There’s no blueprint here. I’m trying to practice radical acceptance and allow myself to feel what I’m feeling in that moment without trying to talk myself out of it or ascribe any value judgment to it. You’re not alone in this time because you’re unloved and will always be. It’s just where someone hit pause on the movie. But it’ll start again. And we won’t know what happens next until it does. 

But in the meantime, it’s okay. 

People Need People; People Wreck People

On a late night in mid-September, I was walking home from a show. Well, not home, but to someone who felt like it.

That night I noticed an installation set up outside behind the library with interactive exhibits that encouraged those passing by to engage with the strangers around them, meant to illustrate the place we have in the lives of others. I smiled, thinking of my own connections and the joy they brought me.

At the time, it felt like a fun way to state a fairly obvious fact: social interaction was healthy and good for us. People need people.

But what’s a fact to a world gone mad?

Recently I’ve realized that everything is a promise, and that’s not particularly comforting. Because promises aren’t laws of nature; they’re ongoing contracts which must be upheld by all parties. They can be broken. Some far more easily than others, of course. It takes a pandemic to make a country shut down but just a moment of fear to make a person do the same. And when they’re broken, we break.

There are promises everywhere we look. Big and small. Personal and fundamental. They’re trails on the map of charted territory, the fabric of the security blanket in which we wrap ourselves.

Even facts are just promises reinforced by fundamental elements that we assume will remain facts themselves. Science says that human connection is healthy, and there are a thousand reasons why. Until one changes and suddenly it’s anything but.

We make promises to each other, and the world makes promises to us. Shaking hands is a standard greeting. A hug is a comfort, not a leap of faith. Weekdays are for work, weekends are for friends. Go outside and breathe in the fresh air. I’d never do that to you. Death and taxes.

But one handshake should have never happened and hugs turned treacherous and people became grenades and the person who said they’d never do that ended up doing exactly that. Taxes are delayed but don’t worry, death is picking up the slack.

Even the paradoxical promise that nothing was permanent has been broken. Shelter-in-place didn’t stop at the front door. We awoke on to a world on pause. Whatever your situation was on March 16th is what it’s going to be for the foreseeable future, like it or not. Your city, your home, your friends, your relationships. A snapshot of time, and we have no choice but to look. Are you sheltered or are you trapped?

So the promises were broken, and there weren’t enough gloves in the world to pick up the pieces. Everything disappeared suddenly, completely; everything stood still. Shattered glass and cold, unmoving stone. Unbearably loud and impossibly silent.

I spend my weekends walking around San Francisco. Everything’s accessible on foot if you’ve got nowhere to be. I take comfort in the now-familiar streets, thinking that at least one promise has been kept. And then I remember the city is built on a fault line so I stop thinking and keep walking.

There are messages of love on barred windows and plywood doors. Bright blue latex interrupting the natural pinks and greens of a flower bed. Marquees are either abandoned with an ad for a show from mid-March or have an optimistic “be back soon!” on them in a font as bold as that promise.

I stare briefly at each person that I pass, trying to send a message of kindness through my mask and across those 6 feet—the only thing I’d dare transmit. I never fully realized the role the mouth played: a white flag or a smoking gun. I also search for familiar faces. I didn’t break any rules if I just happened to run into them, right? But even a city small enough to walk is too big for that.

When there’s no one around, I lower my mask and my guard. The air is cold, crisp, sweet. Forbidden fruit.

I walk by the exhibit again. It’s the middle of the day but the streets are just as empty as the first time I saw it.

The concept of encouraging people to reach out and touch each other now seems like a relic from an era gone by, with instructions that read like a list of forbidden activities. Grab some people and form a human chain. Push this button. Pull up a chair and have a chat. Hold hands and dance. You, me, we.

And the science: We’re happier, even healthier, when we have regular, positive social interactions. It’s good for you, and for us.

Facts that had been essential truths to us for centuries were now obsolete in the span of a few months, rendering the interdependent world we’ve built useless. A promise held up by a thousand other promises, all threads of the tapestry.

How strange that human connection, the thing that’s supposed to bring us together, so quickly and easily ended up pushing us apart. People need people; people wreck people.

And that home I was heading to that September night? Haven’t been there since. It disappeared suddenly, completely; it stood still. Shattered glass and cold, unmoving stone. Unbearably loud and impossibly silent. And like the other promises, I wondered if it was ever really there at all.

Solo, But Not Alone

When I started to travel solo last year and my destinations got less and less traditional, my dad asked me if I was just going for shock value. I laughed and said no, but he was partially right. I wanted to shock myself and once I got a taste of life outside my sterilized, American bubble, I just wanted more. 

But why solo? To be honest, it started out of necessity. There was a time where I didn’t have anyone but instead of being lonely, I chose to embrace and cultivate my independence. There were things I wanted to do and if I realized that if I sat around waiting for someone to do them with, I’d be waiting forever. At a difficult point in my life, it felt good to be in control. Now, I’ve got people on my team but I still choose to go solo.

There’s not much you have control over in your mid-twenties. You’re working at the bottom, paying rent to someone you don’t know, testing the waters with friends you’ve probably only met within the last year or two, and placing your heart in the hands of strangers. It doesn’t always go well. No matter how logically you think about it and how closely you follow the instructions on how to protect yourself, people are going to do what people are going to do. But this is one thing I have control over. My trips are experiences that I create for myself and no one can take that from me. Whether it’s by choice or not, going it alone puts the power in my hands.

On my 6th anniversary of being single, I watched the sun rise and set in Morocco, a place that I’ve been wanting to go for years but used to consider “off limits” unless I found a male companion to go with. But after a brutal streak where it felt like that would never be in the cards, I finally said enough and just booked the damn flight. It was everything I could’ve asked for, an intoxicating combination of defying expectations, subverting societal norms, being in control, and doing exactly what I wanted.

We place so much emphasis on romantic relationships, especially for women in their mid-twenties. We’re not only expected but encouraged to repeatedly open ourselves up to heartbreak, then told to deal with the hurt in silence and get back out there because god forbid another year passes without a ring on our finger. There’s an extra layer of pain if your goals are hinging on it. So let’s all throw out the construct of needing someone by your side in order to do what you want. If you’ve got someone, great. But if you don’t, please don’t let that stop you from doing what you want. Go see that movie. Make a dinner reservation for one. And take that trip on your own. Don’t wait for anyone else’s presence for permission to live.

It is so tough to find the balance between accepting full responsibility for your happiness while still remaining open to the meaningful connections that deep down we all crave. I haven’t figured it out, and I feel like it’s something I’ll be working on for the rest of my life. But traveling solo is one way that I’ve explored that dichotomy. You and you alone are responsible for your experience but the same time, you are constantly relying on others. You ask strangers for directions. You take a deep breath and ask that group if you can join them. You swap stories around convenience store tapas and bottom shelf wine. You make plans for the next day because let’s face it, solo is fun but you’d rather be with people. It’s like microdosing on vulnerability. For 24 hours or so, you’re sharing new experiences with total strangers and placing your time, money, safety, and joy in their hands, trusting someone you didn’t know 20 minutes ago with something that you set out to be your own. And if it really goes poorly, you can walk away easier than you can in “real life” but you almost never do. 

2019—and if I’m being honest, this decade—had far too many moments when it felt like my happiness was at the mercy of others who used that power irresponsibly. I grew disillusioned and disconnected, and I felt myself slipping into a mindset that I didn’t want to be in. Traveling solo helped me come back from that by reminding me that people are inherently good. Maybe things demagnetize our moral compasses—fear, mostly—and cause us to treat others poorly. But when you’re traveling and only concerned about what’s in front of you, the complications fade away. We recalibrate ourselves and return to our purest form, global citizens who want nothing more than a good experience for ourselves and those around us.

We shouldn’t have to get on a plane to be good to each other. Let’s start with where we are right now and try not to let life get in the way of treating people with kindness, compassion, and respect. It’s a hard world out there and we need each other to get through it. See you all in 2020.