rye
. . .
The stage lightsburn different when you’re planning to stand in them yourself.
I adjust the microphone height for the third time, knowing it’s perfect already but needing my hands busy while my brain processes what I’m about to do. Behind me, four stools sit arranged in their familiar semicircle, waiting for tonight’s performers. Except tonight, one of those stools has my name on it, metaphorically speaking, and the thought makes my stomach twist into knots I haven’t felt in years.
“You’re going to wear a hole in that stage if you keep pacing,” Jovie calls from behind the bar where she’s organizing glasses for tonight’s crowd. “And before you ask, yes, everything’s ready. Yes, the sound system’s checked. Yes, I’ve got the setlist. And yes, you’re being ridiculous.”
“I’m being thorough.”
“You’re being scared.” She sets down a glass with more force than necessary. “Which is valid, but also unnecessary. These women coming tonight? They’re here because you created something special. A safe space for female artists to be vulnerable without the usual industry bullshit.”
She’s right. When I announced the women-only songwriter empowerment night two weeks ago, the response overwhelmed me. Not just from performers wanting slots, but from women across Nashville wanting to attend, to witness, to support each other in ways this industry rarely allows.
The door chimes and I look up expecting another early arrival, but it’s Zara walking in with purpose, her designer boots clicking against the worn wood floor.
“What are you doing here?” The question comes out sharper than intended, my nerves making everything feel like a potential disaster.
“Supporting women artists,” she says simply, then grins. “And making sure my brother doesn’t do something stupid like try to sneak in dressed as a woman.”
“Darian wouldn’t?—”
“He absolutely would. Which is why he’s currently at home with strict instructions to stay there until this is over. Levi’s on babysitting duty with Poppy, probably teaching her to crawl toward guitars.” She moves closer, studying my face with the kind of attention that makes me want to hide. “You’re performing tonight.”
It’s not a question.
“Maybe.”
“Definitely. You’ve got that look. Same one I get before stepping on stage after a long break.” She runs her fingers through her hair, a nervous habit I’ve noticed she shares with Darian. “How long since you’ve performed publicly?”
“Three years.” The admission tastes like copper in my mouth. “Not since everything fell apart.”
“And now?”
“Now I have a song that won’t leave me alone.” I think about the track Darian and I created, how it lives in my bones now,demanding to be heard. “A song that needs to be sung, not just played from a recording.”
Zara nods like this makes perfect sense. “Good. You need this. We all need to see you claim your space again.”
Before I can respond, the door opens again and women begin filtering in. Local artists I recognize from various venues, some established, some just starting out. They greet each other with hugs and excited chatter, the energy building toward something electric.
I slip into manager mode, greeting everyone, making sure performers know their slots, checking that everyone has what they need. It’s easier than thinking about what comes later, when I’ll have to stop hiding behind logistics and actually bare my soul.
“Rye!” A voice calls out and I turn to find Cassidy Brennan, one of Nashville’s most respected female producers, walking toward me with open arms. “This is brilliant. About time someone created a space like this.”
“Just trying something different.”
“You’re doing more than that.” She glances around at the filling venue. “You’re giving us permission to take up space without apology.”
More women arrive, the venue filling with an energy I’ve never felt here before. There’s something different about a room full of women supporting women, no competitive edge, no need to be anything other than authentic. Jovie works the bar with her usual efficiency while I make rounds, but my mind keeps drifting to the guitar case hidden in my office, to the lyrics written in my notebook, to the moment I’ll have to decide whether to step into the light or stay in the shadows.
Eight o’clock arrives too fast. I take the stage to introduce the night, my hands steady despite the chaos in my chest.
“Welcome to the Songbird’s first women-only songwriter empowerment night.” My voice carries clear and strong, surprising me. “Tonight isn’t about competing or impressing anyone. It’s about sharing our stories, our struggles, our triumphs. It’s about taking up space in an industry that often tells us to shrink.”
Applause fills the room, warm and genuine.
“We have incredible talent lined up tonight, starting with Melissa Grant.”
