“I built these walls with broken promises, Each brick a name I used to know. You came with hammers made of patience, Showed me gardens where the rubble used to grow.”
The room goes completely still. I can feel the shift in energy, the way everyone leans in like they’re hearing something they shouldn’t, something too private for public consumption. But that’s what makes it powerful. That’s what makes it real.
“You hold my chaos like it’s holy, Trace my scars like they’re a map to somewhere better. I’m learning love can be this easy, When you stop trying to control the weather.”
Somewhere in the third verse, I hear someone sniffle. By the bridge, tissues are being passed down rows. This song, born from late-night conversations with Darian about our fears, from quiet mornings when he made coffee exactly how I like it without having to ask—this song breaks something open in the room.
When I finish, the silence stretches for what feels like hours before the applause crashes over me. People are standing, some wiping their eyes, others pulling out their phones to capture the moment. Nina’s crying openly, not even trying to hide it, and Iwatch her turn to the executive next to her and mouth something that looks like “spectacular.”
I stand from the piano, my legs surprisingly steady. “Thank you,” I manage, my own eyes burning. “That was ‘Growing Season.’”
The silence after I say the title feels significant, like I’ve just named something that matters.
The rest of my set flows like water, each song building on the momentum of that moment. I find my rhythm, understand why I’ve been hiding this for so long—because it matters too much, because being seen like this makes me vulnerable in ways I’ve spent years avoiding. This is mine. My voice, my words, my truth.
For my last song, I move back to the center of the stage. “This one’s for my daughter,” I say, finding Lily’s face in the front row. Her eyes are wide, surprised to be acknowledged so publicly. “Who reminds me every day that growing up doesn’t mean growing hard.”
I sing “Double Digits,” a song I wrote for her tenth birthday but have never performed publicly. It’s about watching your child become their own person, about letting go while holding on, about being proud and terrified in equal measure. Halfway through, I catch her eye and wink, just like I used to when she was little and would watch me rehearse in our living room.
She smiles back, this beautiful, uncomplicated smile that makes every hard decision I’ve made worth it. Starting over with Darian despite the fear—all of it led to this moment where my daughter can watch me claim something I thought I’d lost forever.
The song ends, and I bow, really bow, not the perfunctory thing but a genuine gesture of gratitude for this audience that let me be vulnerable, that received my truth without judgment.
As I walk offstage, my ears ringing with applause, Darian catches me in his arms. He doesn’t say anything, just holds me as I shake with the adrenaline and relief of it all. I think about how his sister Zara was right that day at the venue—we’d been so busy protecting ourselves that we were guaranteeing failure. But we chose something different. Something scarier but more honest.
“That was fucking incredible,” Nina’s voice cuts through the moment. She’s backstage somehow, her face streaked with mascara, her professional composure completely shattered. “Do you understand what you just did? You just showed everyone why you matter. Why your voice matters.”
Nina Reyes, who’s worked with some of Nashville’s biggest names, who never breaks her polished exterior, is standing here with tears streaming down her face because of something I sang.
“The executives?” I ask, still pressed against Darian’s chest.
“Are probably fighting over who gets to fund your album.” She grabs my shoulders, pulls me away from Darian to look at me directly. “That new song, Rye. Jesus Christ. I’ve been in this business for thirty years, and I’ve never seen a room react like that.”
“Mom!” Lily appears, those yellow roses clutched in her arms. “You were amazing! Like, actually amazing. Not just mom-amazing but real-person amazing.”
I laugh, pulling her into a hug that crushes the roses between us. “Thank you, baby.”
“There were so many people taking videos,” she says, eyes bright with excitement. “You’re going to be famous.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
“Too late,” Nina interjects. “Those videos are already circulating. My phone’s blowing up.”
Over Lily’s shoulder, I spot a few lingering industry types near the exit, their faces animated as they discuss what they justwitnessed. This is really happening. After years of hiding, I’m finally letting myself be seen.
Darian’s hand finds the small of my back, steady and sure. “You ready for the after-party?”
“There’s an after-party?”
“Nina insisted. Something about striking while the iron’s hot.”
I look around the backstage area, at the flowers already arriving from people who want to attach themselves to whatever tonight was, at Nina fielding calls on her phone with a manic energy I haven’t seen from anyone before, at my daughter still beaming with pride, at this man who helped me find my voice again by creating space for it to exist.
“Give me ten minutes to change?”
“Take twenty,” Nina says without looking up from her phone. “I need time to field these offers.”
“Offers?”
