One week ago.

Sunday morning.

I woke up in my own bed for the first time in 8 days.  My bags that had been unloaded from my frozen over car the night before, awaiting me still by the kitchen door.  After an 8 hour drive home in a snowstorm, hauling my belongs upstairs to unpack was low on the “to do” list that morning.  So while my fiancé slept in, I made a pot of coffee and unpacked my essentials onto the kitchen table.

Journal.  Pen.  Jesus Calling.  MacBook.  Library book.  Note pad.

Between the early morning sunlight coming through the kitchen window and the fresh bouquet of roses he had gotten me the night before, the ambiance of my “work space” swelled my heart.  So much so that I tried to capture it’s peaceful perfection with a photo.



I dove into my quiet time by writing my first blog entry of 2018.  A long stream of consciousness that explored my previous week in Nashville.

I discussed how I felt out of place with familiar friends in scenarios I’d been in hundreds of times before.  How I was no longer emotionally drained from but just tired of seeing/hearing people I love making excuses for other people and being unhappy.  How grateful I was for the perspective from “this side”…a side that I feel I barely survived long enough to make it to and now that I’m on it, I’m as alive as I’ve ever been.

And where I’ll quote the blog entry I wrote last Sunday (but never published) and this one that I am writing now is when I said…

“It’s funny, really.  I was so ready to get back to Nashville as soon as possible.  Thanks to the holidays, I had been in Michigan for 40 days straight.  The restlessness was real.  I was starting to feel like my days were not my own anymore.  Like my “job” was to drive 45 miles each way to help my family out with whatever they needed that day, no matter how big of a deal it was or how mundane.  I was ready to put some distance between us.  

My car and I weren’t within the Nashville city limits more than 10 minutes before it felt like my timing was completely wrong.  I was supposed to be in Michigan.”

I drove into Nashville early on a Friday evening.  I had seen my Granny the night before and promised to call her once I got to Nashville so that she wouldn’t worry about me.  I was driving down Interstate 40 when I called.  She answered the phone and it sounded like she was gasping for air.  She couldn’t get any words out.  I immediately hung up the phone and called my family to get over there.  When my aunt arrived less than 10 minutes later, an ambulance was right behind her.  She’d had what they thought was an asthma attack.  Her first real one.  So new to all of us, in fact, that no one could locate her inhalers because my Granny was so insistent that “they don’t work”.  Once her breathing calmed down and her vitals came up normal, EMS left and my family sat with her awhile with the promise to take her to see her doctor next week.  They assured me she was OK.

I, however, was not OK.

To make matters even worse, the very next day, my mother was fit in for a last-minute surgery.  Her second one since Thanksgiving.  Nothing life-threatening, but still requiring a few days in the hospital.

The rest of the weekend, the rest of the week, really, just dragged on.  I didn’t want to be there.  At all.  I wanted to be home.  Music.  My friends.  Being out and about in my city.  All of it felt as trivial as an Instagram “like”…

My phone blew up daily.  Updates from family members.  Check-ins with Granny.  Check-ins with Mom.  Walking siblings through some huge life decisions.  My “job” of my family followed me over 500 miles south.  I wasn’t off the hook.  And I couldn’t have been more grateful.  I concluded my blog with some bullet points of things I learned in that week away…the last one being…

  • Family is everything.  Without them, none of this matters.

So after my 8 days in Nashville (and being held captive an extra day thanks to the winter storm), I drove back on a Saturday.  My very first stop once I crossed the Michigan state line was to Romulus.  To sit on the floor by my Granny’s recliner.  To hold her hand.  To smother her in kisses.  To jokingly tell her she doesn’t have to scare us all with a medical emergency to get me to come back to her faster.


So let’s go back to last week.

Sunday morning.

Peaceful.  Quiet.  Contemplative.  Thankful to be home.  Writing, reading, drinking coffee and looking out the window.  Everything felt good again.

Later on that day, the Williams’ met for dinner at Olive Garden to celebrate my mom’s birthday.  I got to kiss on my nephews and niece.  Hug my parents.  Stuff myself with pasta and go home to enjoy a lazy night of Netflix with my fiancé that was over a week overdue at this point.

Then the phone rang.

My Aunt Kathy was rushing my Granny up to Urgent Care because Granny couldn’t breathe again.  Then… They are admitting her to the hospital.  We are about to drive her up there.  Then…she is going by ambulance because it isn’t safe to personally transport her without her on oxygen.

Even simply typing this right now, I can still hear the ringing in my ears.


At 90 years old, you cannot catch pneumonia.

I knew that.

We all know that.

And just like that, a bomb exploded on my “peaceful perfection”.

I spent the next 6 days living in hospital room 553…

…sleeping on a window seat “bed” (gym mat) with a paper thin blanket to protect me from the drafty window I was pressed against.  Waking up every hour on the hour while a whole roster of nurses and techs came in to check whatever it was they needed to check whenever they needed to check it.  Holding her up when she’d cough her lunges out, her back and ribs aching so badly that she couldn’t get comfortable again for hours.  Watching them stick needles and IVs and leave bruises all over her frail and aged arms.  Helping her in the bathroom and making jokes so that she wouldn’t feel embarrassed.  Spraying down and brushing her hair when she got self conscious about her “bed head”. Trying to be the translator between her and the nurses because she couldn’t hear them 80% of the time.  Helping set up and clean up every meal they brought to her.  Staying quiet in the corner while she desperately tried to catch a nap whenever she could.  Kissing her forehead a dozen times in a day.

**Now this is not to say that other family members did not dedicate long days up there as well.  Because they did.  I was just the one who took it upon themselves to take up residence in the room too, ha.  **


Our days.  Our heads.  Our hearts.


Tried to write what I was feeling and couldn’t.  Tried to learn dozens of songs for a rehearsal that I never made it to.  Tried to text and email people back but didn’t know what to say.  How could I plan anything…meetings, shows, studio, work-outs, dinner with my fiancé…when I really didn’t know what was going to happen.

Thanks to the good Lord above, her lunges cleared up.  She started to get better.

Once she could walk down the hall with a walker, maintaining an average oxygen level, they let her go home.

She is tired.  She is beat up.

She is a fighter who’s still fighting.

There are a lot more things to figure out and a lot of hard conversations to have amongst ourselves and with Granny.  Some tough questions to ask ourselves, when we’re alone and processing.  A reality that will be difficult to accept, but is already here nonetheless.  A reality that is thankfully far less crushing than the alternative, so I’ll take it.

I performed with a band in Detroit last night and tried to stay in the moment the best I could, trying to remind myself that this is what I do when I’m not obsessing over my Grandma, haha.  I was blown away by the support from the musicians and even some people in the crowd that had heard or read on Facebook about my Granny.

One woman in particular said, “At 90 years old, every day is a blessing.”

I’m so thankful for more days.

I’ll gladly take the “messy” …

Just give me more days.





The ‘hood’ that raised us

The ‘hood’ that raised us

I’ll start this post off with a simple “Thank you” to whoever is reading this.

Whether it’s been a random call or text to say Hi, a congratulations on my engagement, leaving a comment on a video I posted, or coming up to me after a show… I’m thankful (and still socially awkward with compliments) for a view of my world from an outside perspective.

If you know me, you know I don’t take myself very seriously.  I’m never without some sarcastic or witty remark on social media or in the middle of telling you a ridiculous story, complete with comedic pauses and exaggerated facial expressions.

I feel like I was born an open book.

However, lately I have not felt like opening up about much.  It’s been a tough couple of weeks.

I’ve attended 2 funerals in less than a month’s time.  An absolute pillar of my world was diagnosed with Parkinson’s, my faith and fear all rolled up into a little ball, resting like a constant lump in my throat. My mother was in and out of the hospital all around Thanksgiving (she’s home and recovering now).  And we just came up on the one year anniversary of my fiancé’s best friend passing…needless to say, the emotional rollercoaster has been running to the extreme lately.

So, in all that, I’ve completely thrown myself into fitness classes and book-reading and learning songs that are easily played using the only 4 chords I’m good at…anything that I can control in the midst of what feels like chaos of the brain.

This here little blog of mine is where I process.

So here it goes…

I grew up in Belleville, Michigan. First, in a small ranch-style home, nestled in the most pot-hole-ridden neighborhood behind a family dinner.  I made my very first friends there. I learned how to ride a bike in treacherous terrain. There was a church at the end of my street where I loved to sneak into the “secret garden” to play. (Once I was older, I learned my “secret garden” was actually used to sprinkle ashes of deceased church members. Not creepy at all.)

When I was 8 years old, my family bought a “lot” in a brand new subdivision, Harbour Point. It was on the other side of Belleville Lake and sat directly beside the high school. I vividly remember Dad driving us across town each week to see the updates on the house-building process. When it was nothing but a frame, he’d point out, “This is the kitchen…This is the bathroom…etc.” We took photos with disposable cameras of me standing in what would eventually be my bedroom. I thought it was the coolest thing ever.

When we finally moved in, there was only a handful of other completed homes in the subdivision. The rest of the neighborhood? The ultimate ‘playground’.

Dug out basements to jump in and out of, huge piles of stacked up A-frames to hide in, Port-A-Potties (for the construction workers) with vulgar doodles all over them, crazy “puddles” that were the size of ponds when it rained and made excellent ice skating rinks when they froze over, a wooded area in the very back where we’d pretend to survive in the wilderness.  All the half-built homes were ours to invade once the workers went home, kicking their empty beer and soda cans across incomplete rooms.  Giant dirt hills were the ultimate to climb up and play on, making for endless sledding options in the winter.  Our imaginations ran completely wild in this “oasis” of adventure. Looking back on it now, I don’t know how all of us kids weren’t severely injured/in need of a tetanus shot every other day. I would never allow my hypothetical child to play in those danger zones now, ha. But back then… it was everything.

Being that I am the oldest of 4, my siblings were fairly little when we moved into our new digs. Their very first friends in life lived within a 6 house radius. Their first bus stop was at the end of our driveway, where all the kids from the neighborhood would congregate. Kids barely bigger than their backpacks.

I can remember walking down the street, trying to wrangle up my sisters and brother for dinner, their bikes always dispersed in someone’s yard. Whether they were currently at that house or not was irrelevant to them.  Each kid had their sidekick(s) in the neighborhood.  You know, constantly at each other’s house, in the same grade, taking band class together, and so on. No other girl in Harbour Point was quite my age, they fell either a couple years younger or 3-5 years older. It’s funny what a huge difference that can make once you start middle school.  I never quite “fit in” with a neighborhood crew, which of course, planted seeds of insecurity in an already awkward time of life. While they had sleepovers and pool parties and got asked to babysit other neighborhood kids, I found solace in my school friends and music. Looking back, I now see that being more of a “loner” only helped  my singing obsession as a kid.  Also, why my siblings are, to this day, my very best friends.  (My siblings, on the other hand, would never say I was their best friend growing up. Ha!)

My little brother had 2 best friends in the neighborhood. Kyle, who lived directly across the street, and Jesse Johnson, who lived down the block. Garrett was NEVER without at least one of them by his side. The 3 of them were always making big plans for something…constructing elaborate forts, trying to con my dad into giving them permission when both of the other dads had already said “No”, choreographing Star Wars battles in the backyard, and all the other adorable and obnoxious things that little boys do. I was always the one sent up the street to retrieve my brother from Jesse’s house.  A lot of times his sister, Sam, would answer the door. She was probably the closest in age to me and was always super sweet to us Williams kids.  However, she was best friends with a couple girls in the neighborhood that I always seemed to be at odds with, so we never really hung out. I cringe/belly laugh when I recall the hilarious & petty “enemy lines” that so easily get drawn when you’re a kid. No real reason behind it, most times you forgive and forget after a day.  You’re just oblivious to life beyond your driveway.

I’d like that oblivion back right now. And if you grew up anything like me, I’m betting you want it back too.  We all come from our own “Harbour Point”.

My brother’s childhood best friend, Jesse Johnson, the blonde-headed and funny face-making kid from up the street, passed away last week.

He was 26.

This is a hard one to wrap my brain around.
I know I’m not alone on that.

His memorial over the weekend was surreal. Surreal to be mourning the 26 year old that was gone, when I so distinctly remember him as the little kid up the street. I don’t know that I’d seen Jesse since him and my brother graduated high school.  Observing the memory boards with him and Garrett…from 5 year olds on bikes to teenagers on stage, starring in high school productions…it felt like swallowing a brick.  Surreal to be reunited with my younger siblings’ friends and old neighbors from “the hood” and realize that everyone didn’t stay 10 years old. Everyone is grown and half recognizable.  It made me feel even more shocked by everything.  And old.

I’ve cried for my brother, the one who “gets me” more than anyone in this world, and for whom I cannot muster up anything enlightening or comforting to say.  I cry for his childhood memories that are now bittersweet & for the guilt I know he feels for having lost touch with Jesse the last few years.  I cry for Jesse’s parents, because this is just unfathomable. His mom was a secretary at my middle school. I’ll never forget when my mother was sick with a vitamin deficiency and had to be hospitalized.  I kept having meltdowns in the middle of class and wanting to call my Grandma to get updates. I was 11 years old and could sense the other people in the office growing impatient with me leaving class just to use the office phone. But Jesse’s mom understood and let me use it every time. I’ll always remember that.  I cry for Jesse’s sister, Sam, and I pray to God on my hands and knees that I never have to feel what she’s feeling. I could not lose my sisters or my brother. I can’t even bring myself to imagine it.

I’m broken-hearted for the kid in us all that thought we would live forever.

As adults, we know better. We won’t live forever, but we still think we have time.

It’s truly ironic that one hour before I learned of Jesse’s passing, I was reading the day’s devotional from Jesus Calling about thankfulness.
“A thankful attitude opens windows of heaven. As you look up with a grateful heart. you get glimpses of Glory through those windows. You cannot yet live in heaven, but you can experience foretastes of your ultimate home.”

I then proceeded to write in my journal that morning about how there has been a lot of loss and illness to process this year, but that I was grateful. My exact words were…“I’m so thankful that I still have time to make it right.”

Those words make me ache right now.
The hundreds of cliché sayings about letting people know how you feel before it’s too late, chasing the dream, forgiving, living life to the fullest…it’s all true. We lived it so unapologetically as children, with our bravery/creativity/vulnerability fluctuating as we grew up into adults.

But here’s the thing… We were all that kid conquering dirt hills once. We just find our uphill climbs more exhausting than adventurous now.  But we couldn’t be who we are today without being the child version first.  jesse

If I can take one thing away from this tragic loss it’s this…

May we cherish not only the kid we used to be, but honor the kid that still lives in us.  Trust me, they’re still in there.



The beauty and total weird-ness of “engaged”

So for those of you that are late to the party… I’m engaged.

Yes, I know.

Start praying to your God because the apocalypse is near.  Ha.

But really.

Thirty-one days ago, I said “Yes” to a guy who kneeled down beside our bed with a big diamond ring.  While I sat there, makeup-less and sporting bulldog pajama pants, completely stunned.  It was without a doubt, the easiest “Yes” I’ve ever given in my life.  Granted, I would’ve much preferred to look stunningly beautiful in some lavish treehouse where stardust was sprinkling from the sky…but hey… it was still sweet.  And caught me completely off guard.  Quite the feat.

And the beauty of it was, I never had even a moment’s hesitation.


This is it.

This is my human.  I found him.  And even better…

My human WANTS to be tied with my crazy ass for the rest of his life…like, he thinks HE’S hit the jackpot with ME.  Clearly, he’s insane.  Lucky for me.

And it’s been a blissful month.  Strange, in some regards.  And definitely, a huge reminder to myself (and those around me) that I am rather far removed from the typical girl’s frame of mind with being “engaged”.

First of all, please let me preface this with… I AM SO HAPPY WITH THIS MAN!  He is the only person I could ever say/think/feel ‘forever’ about.  He’s the weirdest, most generous, down for an adventure dude I’ve ever known and he makes me better without ever asking it of me.  I literally cannot believe that someone knows all my bullshit…my hot mess of a past…this “wrecking ball to the self-esteem” dream I continue to chase…the balance in my checking account currently…my obsession with my larger than life family…supporting that I live in another state 50% of the time…the reality that I’ll never love his dog half as much as he does…my inability to apologize most of the time…(you catch my drift)…and yet…

He will stand before anyone and everyone and promise me the best and the rest of his life.

Holy shit, ya’ll.

Just typing that (and the 3 glasses of wine I’ve had) is making me tear up majorly at the moment.  I never thought I’d see the day that I’d get engaged.  And to be completely honest with you, I was more than okay with that.  Because a ring on my finger was never a part of “the dream” (just ask any guy I’ve ever dated/family/friends).  I never envisioned what a wedding would look like.  (Or owning a house.  Or having children.  Or basically, anything that a normal adult would see for their lives.)  Simply put, that was never in my “check” boxes.

So to be wearing a ring of my finger for the last 31 days, and to have not lost/misplaced it yet, is truly wild.  That being said…

Being engaged is fucking weird.

People congratulate me constantly…for what?  I mean, I too am happy that I have this guy and that I’m no longer wasting time getting wasted with douchebags.  Because those that know my story know that it ain’t been the prettiest.  I’ve been through some real shit.

But to congratulate me feels odd…like I accomplished something super impressive…the impressive part was finally allowing someone deserving into my world and loving him back.  The ring is just a beautiful bonus.  But even still…

I’m only part way to the finish line by Pinterest’s standards.  

Because apparently there’s this whole wedding thing to plan/obsess/lose my shit over.

And the unavoidable “so you’re going to have children?” conversation.

Let me say this.

I can’t not roll my eyes at the word “fiancé”.  Nor do I care about a date, a dress, a venue, color schemes, the selection of the wedding party, keeping my nails well-manicured to show off my ring, picking out baby names, or anything else that isn’t about one thing and one thing only…

Me & him.  Him & I.

The ones doing forever.

So yes,  I did wait almost a week before I announced my engagement on social media.  Yes, we still haven’t changed our Facebook relationship status.  Yes, you will have to ask to see my ring because I won’t think to flaunt it for everyone I see.  Yes, it’s true, we don’t have a date or a plan yet and we are totally okay with that.  And yes, if him and I were only thinking of ourselves, we would’ve eloped yesterday.

And yes…the moment I realized I didn’t care about the attention or validation like I thought I was supposed to was when I knew…

This shit is real, this is right…

This is cemetery plots side by side.

Bring it on, baby.

And a whole-hearted “THANK YOU” to the followers of this journey…sweet Lord, we’ve seen it all and I love you for loving me through it ❤









Light the Night.

When I was 7 years old, my best friend was diagnosed with leukemia.  Of course, being so young, I had no idea what that meant.  But I could tell by the look on my parents’ faces and her parents’ faces, it wasn’t good.  Elizabeth and I met in pre-school.  Shortly after, our mothers got us involved in the same dance company, where we would drive out to New Boston…her and I being the youngest girls in the class.  We were ballerinas one day and gymnasts the next, all the while having no actual clue what we were doing…simply following whoever’s lead to whatever Disney song we were to perform to.  One of my fondest memories is when we were backstage for our very 1st dance recital.  Our mothers were fluffing our hair and applying our makeup and calming our nerves.  My mom said as she was leaving us backstage, just a few songs away from taking the stage, “I’m going to leave some makeup right here for you, if you think you need a touch up on your lipstick.”  Needless to say, as 6 year old girls we DEFINITELY thought we needed a self-imposed “touch-up”…lipstick, blush, blue eyeshadow.  The whole works.


Sleepovers and pool parties and dance class and then, all of a sudden…she was sick.  And just like that, her long hair that nearly to the ground was gone.  Then it was us in matching head scarves as we learned to roller blade in my driveway.  The slumber parties started to decrease and the worry in her mother’s face was more apparent.

We had just moved into our brand new house.  My bedroom was all pink except for this old, ugly recliner that used to be my grandpa’s, sitting against my window.  I remember being asleep and hearing the phone ring in the middle of the night.  I sat straight up in my bed and waited for any kind of sound to follow.  My mother came in a few minutes later, sat me on her lap in that hideous recliner and broke the news to me that Elizabeth had passed away.  I remember sobbing until I was sick.  It was a week before my 9th birthday.

I can recall being paranoid throughout her battle and after her death.  I was in grade school, reading fiction chapter books about teenaged girls fighting cancer.  I took every bruise, every time I brushed my teeth too hard my gums bled as a sure-sign symptom that I too had leukemia.  Thankfully, I did not.

A  couple years later, my Uncle Joe, my mother’s oldest brother, was diagnosed with leukemia.  At this pointIMG_5700, I felt more prepared with what to expect.  I knew it’d be hard.  I knew he’d go bald.  That was as far as I got in my “mental prep” before he too passed away.

It was around that same time that Elizabeth’s father, Bob, relapsed and fell ill with leukemia.  We lost him too.  I can still remember sitting at their house after the memorial, not taking my eyes off her mom and her little brother.  It was at this point, not even a teenager yet, that I started to understand the frailty of life.

I’d lose more people to cancer in the years to come and they’d all hurt.  They’d all seem unfair.  But the “leukemia cloud” would seem the darkest.

Last summer, my godfather, Uncle Mike, was abruptly diagnosed with leukemia, just weeks after we lost his brother to liver cancer.

I’ve written about this before but holy shit…writing about it again still feels like repeated punches to my chest.  (As I’m currently sobbing off my eyelash extensions and pouring more wine.)

I was so sure he was going to beat it.  I really was.  It had been 20 years since this disease left it’s 1st hole in my life, surely we’ve come so much further now… He wasn’t a small child.  He was my lion.  When I saw him just an hour before he passed, laying in his hospital bed, I knew…his victory was not the one I had been pleading with God for.  It was Heaven.408718_10152770655530581_1544559536_n[1]

I cry for him almost every single day.  I cry for my mother that has had to bury 3 brothers.  Two of them dying within a year of each other.  Two of them dying of the same disease. I cry because I’m afraid my aunt, Uncle Mike’s widow, will think she is alone and that we are “his family”, when I feel like I belong to her just as much as I belonged to him.  I cry for all the emotions his death brings up in me and my long history of loss to leukemia.  I cry for Elizabeth’s family, who I’ve lost touch with for no real reason except that we just did.

A few days ago, I was contacted by someone from a local chapter of The Leukemia & Lymphoma Society, asking if I would like to volunteer.  Somehow, she had come across my blog and the entry I’d written months ago about the loss of my godfather.  To say I was moved would be an understatement.  To have my honesty recognized is beautiful enough.  But to be called upon to play a part in such a worthy cause truly feels like God talking to me.  So I’m listening.

I’ll be walking and volunteering my services for Light The Night in Ann Arbor, MI on September 30th.  I need this light, literally and figuratively.  I need to stand amongst survivors and those standing for lost loved ones.  I need to honor this fight and this hurt.   I need to shine a light.

My birthday is this coming Friday.  And I can’t think of any better way to commemorate another trip around the sun than sharing my story and supporting this cause. Please help me join in bringing light to the darkness of cancer by donating towards my fundraising efforts to support The Leukemia & Lymphoma Society’s Light The Night.  Money raised through Light The Night allows The Leukemia & Lymphoma Society (LLS) to fund treatments for patients who are suffering from all forms of blood cancers. The impact of LLS supported research goes beyond blood cancers. The discoveries made in blood cancer research have led to break through treatments for many cancers and other serious diseases.


Even a $5 donation goes a long way in this fight.  You can contribute to my Light The Night page at

the celebration and devastation of time…

the celebration and devastation of time…

This morning hurts.  I can feel it already even though it’s only 8AM.  It hurts like yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that.  I’m not really sure how to begin explaining it because it’s highly possible that no one will relate.  But maybe some of you will.  I have been trying to find the words for what I’m feeling for weeks now… And again, I’ve fallen victim to the train of thought “I should write about that…Make time to write about that…You can write about that tomorrow…” and then I don’t.  It just gets added to my brain’s ever-growing pile of Post-It notes.  Aside from being distracted, I know there’s a part of me that didn’t want to write this blog because I’m weary of giving a public voice to the crippling fear inside my head.  I don’t want to jinx anything.  I don’t want God to find me ungrateful.  I don’t want anyone to find me ungrateful.  I’m so grateful sometimes it feels like it’s too much “gratitude” and my chest might literally explode…maybe that’s my problem.

My Granny is 90 years old today.

Yes, you read that correctly…90.

I am completely blown away with amazement and adoration for this human, who clearly, has stood the test of time and is still looking as beautiful as ever.

Anyone who knows me knows of this unwavering love I have.  It’s a love I make quite public, whether it’s on social media/up on a stage/hanging out with friends/pouncing on her & annoying her with compliments every chance I get.  People see it and think, “How sweet, she’s so close to her Grandma.”  I wish it was as black & white as that.  But I know better.  God definitely knows better.  It’s a love that has without a doubt saved me from myself on more than a few occasions throughout my short lifetime.  A love that was so deep-rooted inside of me that even in my lowest of times (and they were low indeed), I was reminded that even in all the bad, I had a soul that was good… I still wanted to see, hold the hand of, hear the voice of, take care of my G and make her proud.

When I think of “the pillars” in my world, God and my Granny.  I established a relationship with the Lord by going to church with my Grandma, starting around the time I was in 5th grade.  And in turn, God has heard me pray/sob/plead/rejoice over her every single day since.  She is without a doubt my 1st and most important prayer request.  Keep her safe.  Keep her healthy.  Keep her happy.  Let her know You are there so she won’t be lonely.  

This past Saturday (August 26th), we threw my Granny a surprise birthday party.  We reserved a little banquet room at a restaurant not far from her house.  The party fell on my parents’ 34th wedding anniversary, so the “lie” to get Granny to attend was that my Dad was throwing my Mom a surprise anniversary party.  My sister and I put in the time making sure the decorations were perfect.  Photo collages, big balloons, enlarging and framing photos that were nearly 70 years old, making table centerpieces that featured photos of Granny from a woman in her early 20’s to this past Easter Sunday.  Family, friends, neighbors all gathered to celebrate the life of this woman.  She was certainly surprised.  Then overwhelmed.  Then a little nervous.  Then realized that she had no choice but to be the center of everyone’s attention so she went along with it, ha.  We showed her all the pictures we’d “borrowed” from her old photo albums and copied to include in collages and centerpieces.  She laughed as she pointed out who/what/when/where/what they had for lunch that day with all the photos we’d acquired.

Seeing my Grandma young, freshly moved to Detroit and living in a boarding house with her exciting girlfriends…posing with her brothers while wearing a headscarf, youthful and playful and proud to be their sister…her and my Grandpa their first handful of years as a married couple…with my Dad and my Aunt Kathy as young kids, big glasses, big hair, and always at least one dog in the photo…

My Grandma was someone and something other than my Grandma in her lifetime.  The proof of this moved me in ways I can’t adequately describe.  It’s beautiful.

I was equally fascinated as I was saddened.  Sad, that my Grandma has lived alone for the past 25 years on that very same property as these old photos were taken.  Or that she doesn’t see and laugh with her girlfriends like she used to.  Or that she only has one remaining brother now, her youngest brother, my Great Uncle Johnny down in Tennessee.  Or that they took away her license this past spring, so loneliness feels more isolating…Because as much as these photos document what a big life she’s had, it also serves a reminder that “the good ol’ days” are a thing of the past.  

I knew at a very young age that I was called to be my Granny’s best friend after my Grandpa tragically passed.  I’d volunteer myself every Sunday to attend church with her, sit beside her in the back pew and hold her hand, spend the day with her, invite her to every single dance recital/choir concert/cheerleading event/musical, etc. (And she was at every single one of them, with a bouquet of flowers.)  When I moved away to Nashville, I made a point to call her twice a week and never go more than 2 months without seeing her.  I volunteer to fly her or drive her to Nashville and transport her 90 minutes to Hohenwald to see her family.  I don’t list these things for a pat on the back, I really don’t.  I summarize my closeness to my Grandma because it was something that was so natural, so easy, and so understood.  And honestly, it might be one of the ONLY concrete things I’ve ever understood in my life thus far.

She was and still is my constant…my unconditional.  I went through some tough tough shit as a kid.  I then willingly allowed myself to go through some shit as an adult.  And with every fracture to my heart, there was my G…even if she didn’t have all the facts, she didn’t need them because she always came through, no questions asked.  She picked up the phone.  And unbeknownst to her, she picked up my pieces.

A few weeks ago, I started trying to pray through my fears.  Every time I’d get choked up, I’d ask God, “Please allow gratitude to overpower grief.”  And it would help calm me down.  For this last week, I’ve continued to pray the same thing but alas… tears.  Every day.  And what am I grieving?  She’s still here.  Yes, she’s slower, she’s sorer, she’s sadder…but she’s still funny, feisty, grumpy, and loves tappin her toes and snappin her fingers to some Josh Turner all day, errryday.  I looked up the term “anticipatory grief” and I hate it’s definition.  Maybe I hate it because it sounds like bullshit.  Or maybe the thought of waking up to a world where she’s not here really is something to fear with every fiber of my being.

They say to cherish your loved ones.  To let them know how you feel and how much they mean to you.  To never take a day for granted.

So, what do you do when you’ve lived for someone making sure there was nothing left unsaid…or undone…or unloved…?  

I don’t know the answer.  Maybe that’s why it hurts.

So I guess I’ll just continue with what I DO know…  Saying.  Doing.  Loving.

“the music thing”

“the music thing”

So, for the past few weeks, I’ve been trying to commit to “mental health mornings” to start my day.  Aside from waking up at the ass-crack of dawn to work out, I’ve been trying my best to take advantage of these early morning rises to “check in” with myself too.  So after our work-out, and my boyfriend showers and heads off the work, I sit out on the front porch and read up on the book, “Jesus Calling” with my journal in my lap. Also, for the past 2 weeks, I’ve been keeping up (or at least, attempting to) with Oprah & Deepak’s 21-Day Meditation Experience series, “Desire and Destiny” through their website.  Now, I wouldn’t say that meditation/yoga/mantras/affirmations and all this are necessarily my “thing”…but I’m trying.  Why?  Because stagnation and I can no longer be comfort buddies. 

Not that I’m stuck, per se, but the need to expand my mind and get out of unhealthy or limiting thought patterns I’ve become privy to in the past has become increasingly apparent as of late.  I am embarking on a complete reintroduction in the next couple of months and it’s scary, to say the least.  New music, new branding (because apparently that’s a thing in the music business), new documentary, new message, new me…well, at least, an evolving me.
To put myself so front and center for so many to hear/see/judge feels equally part paralyzing and empowering. 

It has been a long time since I’ve been in “Artist Mode” aka “a bright ‘effin spotlight to see if you’re really as good as you think you are”…  Which is crazy considering I’ve always been “doing the music thing” as so many people casually refer to it as.  Even worse, when people literally ask the question every music person hates more than politics, “So are you still doing ‘the music thing’?”  For those of us writing songs, singing demos, waiting tables, driving Ubers, singing background vocals, taking meetings even though we’re not exactly sure what for most times, slowly saving up money for a photo shoot or a recording session, trying to figure out how to create our own website, constantly needing to replace a roommate or two, physically attempting to make our social media numbers higher, booking our own shows, playing our latest creation around town with the hopes that a bigger artist somehow hears it and records it, figuring out how to release new music so that more than just our family and friends think it’s good (but also hoping that they’ll start thinking we’re actually doing something with our lives now), checking our bank accounts and feeling depressed every time so now we check it even less, going to shows and trying to get a handle on our social anxiety as we also try introducing ourselves to someone who might be someone someday, attempting to rise above the rejection of the “cool clique” of music biz peeps when they ignore us because we aren’t “somebody” yet, finding the motivation and passion to keep going when it’d be easier to just give in and give up…

Why yes, we are ALL still “doing the music thing”, thank you for asking.

On top of that, now I’ll also be releasing an album that’s been tied up for awhile now and has me feeling all sorts of nervous and ready and like, “Holy shit, I hope people don’t think this sucks”.  And with that release, I’ll be reliving some painful shit because the album is literally a live recording of some pretty dark places I was in at the time.  Sprinkle on top of that, taking a bunch of photos and videos and trying my best to look skinny and pretty and young.  The cherry on top being, obsessing over how many plays, views, “likes”, follows you got that week…because that’s “Artist Mode” headspace…and once you’ve had it off for awhile, it feels a weeee bit overwhelming when you turn it back “on”, HA!


*** Speaking of “following”…be sure to ‘Follow’ my blog for future posts *** 

Not that I never “un-became” an artist.  I’ve always been one.  Literally, from the time I was 3 years old and belting The Judds from every family member’s fireplace stage.  Or at 4-5 years old when I voluntarily secluding myself on a daily basis at pre-school to draw crayon pictures of a stage with red curtains, a redhead holding a guitar, standing in front of a mic.  Or when I was 8-9 years old and riding my bike in secret to the lake, where I’d sit with a notebook and write songs and poems.  Ages 13-17, when I was up until 1am the morning of a show, burning CDs and printing/slapping on sticky labels to hand out to everyone that would listen to me.  To when I graduated high school and couldn’t move to Nashville fast enough, with $1000 from my graduation party and a 1997 Ford Escort full of clothes with a little too much Little Mermaid (and Wynonna) memorabilia.  To every song I’ve written since, some of which felt like if I didn’t get out of me, those feelings/those words would eat me alive.

These things don’t go away.  They aren’t temporary, they aren’t a phase.  You don’t outgrow them.  It’s embedded in you.  You can attempt to suppress it if you’re lucky.  You can follow alternative roads.  You can chalk it up to a daydream or “that was another life”.  There are definitely days I wish I knew how to do that.  There are days I’d love to know what it’s like to have a career in a field with a salary and health benefits.  Or what it’d be like to have a little diva crawling around my house, the spitting image of me, teaching her to sing Carole King songs before she learns to talk.

But that isn’t me.  It was never me.  A wise woman once told me, “You can’t make an elephant a giraffe.”  I think I’m the elephant in this scenario…?  Ha.

Even from a music stand-point, being “musically active” and being in the “Artist” headspace are two very different things, and it’s been an internal tug-of-war for me the last few years.  I thought that I could quench this thirst by constantly singing…whether it was with background vocals for other people on stage and in the studio, writing songs, singing demos, being around music-makers, etc. etc.  Turns out, I’m still thirsty.  Because as wonderful and inspiring as all of that is, it’s only half of the dream.  And I know A LOT of killer female vocalists that will agree with me on that.  Not because we want to be famous or win a Grammy…but because we have our own thing with it’s own fire and that comes with a burning desire to share it, despite how terrifying it seems sometimes.

And the reality of me extinguishing any of the dreams inside of me are virtually impossible.  It doesn’t happen.  Believe me, I’ve tried in the past.  For the sake of true transparency here, I tried a lot… one toxic relationship after another, co-dependency, drinking, going broke, thinking the absolute worst of myself until I made my thoughts a stinging reality at some points, surrounding myself with the wrong crowd, losing confidence in my gift, not loving or respecting myself enough to forgive my missteps, exhausting myself “keeping busy” rather than moving forward, causing my family to borderline stage an intervention, doubting that anyone would even listen or support me if I tried to step out again, and at least 271 other ways I tried to find a way “out” of my true calling.

But guess what…?

I lived through it all, SO much better for it.

I lived through it all, with a new-found appreciation that I still have the option for my calling…which, is more like a screaming than a calling these days.

And with that, it’s become abundantly clear that there was really only one choice for me all along.

The music thing.

Twitter: @itsraywilliams

IG: @rayray_dubbz


(All the props to my co-writer & musical genius friend, Bonnie Baker for her cool office/writing space vibes in this photo!)

the hometown bubble.

the hometown bubble.

I haven’t been very good about writing lately.  (I sound like a broken record.)  Aside from some journaling here and there and starting a few song ideas, I’ve allowed my mind to be distracted by other things… travelling, packing/unpacking, being outside as much as humanly possible, Harry Potter books (I’ve decided to read the entire series for the first time), putting the finishing touches on releasing new music, learning songs for sessions and shows, visiting my family, happy hours on patios, and my newly acquired love/hate relationship with Crossfit.  (Yes, you read that correctly…Crossfit.  I know.)  It’s actually quite pitiful how much I think, “I should write today…about this…oh don’t forget you want to write about that…” and then I don’t.  Case in point, I’m sitting at my kitchen table with the window open, listening to it storm outside.  The dogs are all at my feet because they don’t like the thunder.  I’m settling in and getting in a good headspace to start writing and I see my boyfriend’s car pull into the driveway with a much-needed new bag of dog food.  So I feed them, I send a couple emails, I wash a few dirty dishes by hand, I check my Twitter, and I think how absolutely LOVELY it would be to curl up on the couch with these pups, listen to the rain, and read more Harry Potter (I’m halfway through Book 6.)  But I have to write.  Kind of like when I set my alarm for 4:50AM for a 5:30AM CrossFit class because it’s the only time of the day my guy and I can both go together.  You dread it, you hate it, you want to push “Snooze” (and maybe you do once), but you know how much better you’ll feel once you’re done.  That’s exactly what I’m hoping happens with writing this blog entry. 

There’s a lot of ground to cover, but I won’t try to tackle even half of it in this entry today.  You’d be reading for hours.  I will, instead, commit to writing another blog entry by the end of this week.  So there, I said it, feel free to hold me accountable.

I’d like to give this afternoon’s attention to my hometown.  And my guess is, your hometown is probably an awful lot like mine.  So I’ll proceed…

I was born in Garden City, MI,  lived in a Polish neighborhood in Detroit the first few years of my life, and then moved 20 minutes west (with Metro Airport right beside us), to the suburb of Belleville, Michigan by the time I was a toddler.  The first home I have memories of is the little brick ranch that sat off a horrendously pot-hole-filled road right behind what used to be Dimitri’s Kitchen (which I guess is now called Mike’s Kitchen).  I made my very first friends there.  Friends that I actually still keep connected with via social media.  I lived in Belleville and only Belleville until the day I moved to Nashville, however, throughout my younger years, I ended up attending 3 out of the 5 different elementary schools within Belleville’s city limits.  Don’t worry, I was uncool through all 3 schools, ha.  Between 2nd and 3rd grade, my mother was expecting her 4th (and thankfully, last) child so we inevitably outgrew our little ranch.  We relocated over the bridge, on the other side of Belleville Lake, to a brand new subdivision, where at the time, we were the 5th house being built in the whole neighborhood.  Our new location had us directly beside Belleville High School and it was a dream for me to people-watch all the students, imagining my own “Saved By The Bell” episode when I reached those hallowed doors someday.  Yup, it was a whole new world on the other side of Belleville…

Our new home was walking/bike-riding distance to Main Street and all the glorious things you can only truly appreciate when you’re a kid.  Hours spent climbing and running all over Victory Park, sugar highs from Frosty Boy, hanging out by the library, loaded cheese fries from A&W, candy cigarette’s from the Dairy Mart, feeding the overzealous (and disgusting) carp off the boat docks at Reflections…  It was sublime and as a child, I had no interest in knowing a life outside of my town.

I was a Belleville Cougar cheerleader when I was 8-10 years old, which lead me to cheerleading for South Middle School and the first couple years of high school.  Turns out, I was too cynical & sarcastic to be a good cheerleader even at 9 years old, and I never outgrew it, who knew.  I was heavily involved in dance and singing at Jan’s School of Dance.  The owner/instructor, Jan Oliver, scared the hell out of me as a kid.  She was strict but she was good, and she called me out on my laziness.  She also gave me some of my first public singing performances at our dance recitals over the summer.  I was involved in my hometown’s Strawberry Festival, whether it was singing/dancing in the parades, performing at the craft fairs, headlining on the ‘main stage’ with my comically bad band at the time, or coming in 1st Runner Up in the Strawberry Queen Pageant.  *cringe*

Throughout high school, I started performing at every local event there was…charity dinners, Music in the Park, choir concerts, tree lightings, church revivals (shout-out to Faith Assembly), talent contests, the whole works.  Suddenly, my dorkiness was irrelevant because everyone knew I could sing.  The local papers wrote about me and for the first time ever, I felt almost cool.  I started performing bigger gigs on bigger stages with bigger artists, and Belleville had a unfailing, “That’s our girl” way about them in their support for me.

All of that was great, but the closer I got to graduation, the more I wanted out.

Nashville was calling.  Literally.

I got to feature my hometown of Belleville, Michigan on USA Network’s “Nashville Star 2” when I was a top 10 contestant back in the day.  I was still working as a hostess at our local Cracker Barrel and I’ll never forget one morning, while refilling a gentleman’s coffee at 7AM, seeing my face on the front page of the newspaper he was reading.  That’s when I KNEW knew…It was time to go.

I’d visit Belleville multiple times a year, every year, for over 10 years.  The first 6 years or so, I’d come back and find it, uh, uneventful.  It was the same few storefronts that managed to stay afloat downtown somehow (one of them being the Chamber of Commerce, so I don’t think that really counts), the rest were closed and the buildings stayed empty.  There was no night-life, no trendy bars or restaurants, the closest theater or mall being 20 minutes away.  I was really just visiting for my family’s sake.  Nashville was so big, so exciting, something to do every second of every day…forever a new place to discover, new friends to meet, coffee shops to bring your dog, countless boys to date, any and every concert you could ever hope to see, studios and writing rooms and stages to be on.  I was so certain I could never be anywhere but Nashville for the rest of my life.

I’ve always joked, “God put a bubble around Belleville.  Nothing’s changed in 20 years.”  And although I’ve always thought those exact words to be true, the way I interpret that statement started to shift about 4-5 years ago…

Somehow, as life went on, my hometown started to become my place of solace, my refuge.  I needed a break, and Belleville gave me one.   I needed away from never-ending construction and condos and bar-hopping and bad boyfriends and insufferable traffic and comparing my dreams and my progress to everyone else’s.  I needed my family, yes.  But I also needed the simplicity that I once rolled my eyes at.  I needed to sit in Horizon Park, right beside Belleville Lake, and breathe…just like I’d done throughout middle school and high school, when I used to look for my voice through writing poems, diary entries, and song lyrics down by the water.  I needed to walk my nephew to Frosty Boy and chase him in the park.  Because if I could watch his eyes light up, then I could forget about all the messes I kept getting myself into.  I needed the comfort of knowing that every member of my family was only a 5 minute drive from the other, so that they could remind me who I REALLY was, not this train-wreck persona I couldn’t snap out of.  And $3 drinks with old friends at Johnny’s was quite the welcomed change of pace from the $14 martinis/shoulder-to-shoulder bars/loud bands playing “Wagon Wheel”/getting all dolled up just to have boys treat you like they’re at a buffet/inevitably leaving my debit card somewhere-scenarios I’d been dealing with for years on end.

Whereas I used to look almost sympathetically at those that never got out from my hometown, I was now jealous of them.  Maybe the “world of endless possibilities” is too much, granting me too many options.  When you have so much in front of you, it makes you feel like you should never settle, like you’ll never be satisfied, therefore, you never do and you never are.  And that’s a lot to take on in your teens and early 20’s when you still don’t know your ass from your elbow.  I started to see my old high school friends that were raising their own families in Belleville in a whole new light, as I was on my 4th disastrous relationship of that year in Nashville.

When I made the decision 18 months ago to live 50/50 between Nashville and Michigan, I second-guessed it everyday for months.  It was that internal tug-of-war where the Nashville Rachel was supposed to be so much better, more evolved than the old Belleville Rachel, so how could I resort back after coming this far?  I’m happy to say, it didn’t take too long before I removed my head out of my ass and realized that both Belleville Rachel and Nashville Rachel can indeed coexist together.  They are both me, they both have a lot to offer to whoever will listen, and no matter what, I’ll never be able to out-run that nor should I want to.  It’s kind of like this brand new song I just wrote and recorded a couple weeks ago in Nashville, where the lyric asks, “How you gonna grow when you’re cutting off your roots?”  Perfect, right?

I give you all of this backstory because recently my hometown has been shaken to it’s core.  There’s been a few tragic (and unfortunately violent) losses that has left Belleville stunned and speechless.  It makes no sense.  One loss, in particular, hasn’t left my thoughts since it occurred a couple weeks ago.

I was down in Nashville late last month, loaded up on meetings and studio sessions, and for once, not really reading what anyone was posting on social media.  I was updating my Instagram story fairly regularly, detailing me in the studio and all, and I saw a somewhat familiar Instagram user that had viewed my story earlier that day.  Curious, I clicked on her page and went through some of her photos.  This girl was a few years younger than me and went to school with my sisters, also she hung out with some of my old childhood friends, so I’d see her pop up on Facebook sometimes. I hadn’t physically seen her in a few years.  Last time being at a local bar, where she came up to hug me and tell me that she had started singing out and about recently and how she thought it was so cool that I moved to Nashville.  When I looked at her Instagram profile a couple weeks ago, I saw photos and videos of her singing, posts about yoga and meditation, intellectual and inspiration quotes, and I thought to myself, “She’s super pretty, she’s into fitness and music, she’s single and child-less and likes to go out, I should become real-life friends with her.”

She was gone 24 hours later.

She died inside her house that sat off a dirt road less than 2 miles from my parent’s house.

And just like that, the bubble I was so sure would always cover Belleville burst.  The reality that my hometown is not exempt from ‘the world’ hit hard.  The reality that a young woman…just like me…just like my sisters…just like you…could be taken…?  This isn’t a troubled past/wrong crowd/drugs/bad neighborhood/a photo shown for 15 seconds on the local news.  It’s so much to process and it will continue to be so much to process.

I share this story, not because I have anything new to contribute.  I don’t have details, I don’t have all these memories and stories.  All I have is perspective.

Egypt Covington was one of us.

I’m still Facebook friends with a lot of people in my hometown that are terrified/enraged and quite a few of them are saying the town has gone to shit.  Despite these recent tragic events, I have to say that I disagree.

All the things I couldn’t see/appreciate about my hometown while growing up are still present today.  There’s something soul-stirring about the loyalty of a smaller-town community, regardless if it’s progress rate.  For a long time, my eyes were fixated on the “new and shiny”.  But now I’ve seen the new and shiny, I’ve lived the new and shiny, and the new and shiny doesn’t claim you when you feel forgotten, or when you’ve forgotten yourself.  But your hometown does. 

I’m proud to be from Belleville and to stand with a community that took care of my family and I.  This town gave me the love and the platform to create these big ol’ dreams of mine.  This town let me cry on it’s shoulder every single time my heart got broken, whether by these dreams or some stupid boy.  This town let me start over.  So no matter where the music takes me, I will always appreciate landing on this stretch of runway that continues to welcome me home.  Bubble or not.