Finding My Voice in a Garden of Song

Plant an overabundance of positivity in your life.

It’s 5:30 a.m., and I’ve just woken from a dream so vivid it’s still humming through my veins. I’d won a fan contest to perform Pearl Jam songs before one of their concerts. A wild twist of fate, considering I don’t play an instrument and can barely carry a tune. But then again, Eddie Vedder’s lyrics are famously mumbled—maybe I’d be fine?

In the dream, my bandmates had arrived before me and warned that Eddie was cranky, worried we’d butcher his songs. Honestly, I was too. But I approached him with awe and reverence. I asked if he was as nervous as I was. He didn’t answer with words, but his body spoke volumes. I told him how much his music had meant to me—especially when, at 26, I was carrying the unbearable weight of childhood sexual trauma. I shared how I had stood in the Fox Theatre in Atlanta, Georgia, hearing them perform Deep, a song that dares to name the reality of rape. I remember feeling shock and joy—joy that a man was using his voice to shed light on a pain so many women endure.

Sharing that vulnerable piece of my story—my deepest wound—did two things. It reminded Eddie, in dream space, of the lives his art has touched. And it reminded me that my own voice is a force. That music, even if I’m only singing alone on a road trip with no one listening, is a salve for my spirit. It lifts me out of shame and back into presence. In that dream, I let go of body shame, fear of judgment, and the weight of old insecurities. I just sang. The dream ended on stage. I don’t know how the crowd reacted, or what Eddie thought. It didn’t matter. The point was—I found my voice through song.

This dream was sparked by many converging paths in my life. A wise friend* recently told me: plant an overabundance of flowers in your mental and emotional garden. Let the flowers outnumber the weeds—though even the weeds have their place. That image stuck with me. For years, my media habits fed the darkness—doom scrolling, murder shows, the constant churn of anxiety. But lately, I’ve been reaching for joy. I’m listening to music again. Watching silly animal videos. Letting myself laugh. I limit politics, but I did see a video of the Fighting Oligarchy tour where a beautiful, diverse crowd was singing Chappell Roan’s Pink Pony Club while waiting for 82-year-old Bernie Sanders. That song—now an anthem for anyone who feels different and unaccepted—surfaced again when I saw a clip of an Indigenous trans-femme PhD driving through Navajo land, singing her heart out. That’s what music can do: speak across generations and cultures, across pain, and into healing.

Another flower I’ve recently planted came from a video about trauma healing. The counselor said: breathing, mindfulness, and letting go are good, but some wounds require something more—justice. That word lit something inside me. Yes. My healing has felt stuck. I’ve tried all the tools, but something deeper is needed. Unfortunately, the counselor didn’t say how to find that justice. I’ve been sitting with that.

For me, I think the path to justice begins with truth-telling. Speaking out—even if only in dreams. Writing this blog. Re-embracing my book Radically Me: Transforming Trauma to Create a Life You Love. These are all ways I’m reclaiming my voice. And the more I speak, the stronger it grows. The more I plant joy, music, silliness, and truth in my emotional garden, the more blooms I see. I trust the universe will keep offering me chances to rise, to roar, to sing—not just for myself, but with others. Because our collective voice can sing the world into healing.

*www.mybizguide.com Many thanks to Kraig Smyth for the inspiration! Check out his site about our wellness ecosystem.