I see myself reflected in their faces. Not Rye the venue manager, not Rye the ex-wife of a famous musician, not Rye the single mother trying to hold it all together. Just Rye, the artist. The woman who writes songs that matter, whose voice deserves to be heard.
“Holy shit,” Cassidy Brennan says loud enough for everyone to hear. “Where the hell have you been hiding that voice?”
“Behind everyone else,” I answer honestly, and the room laughs, understanding too well.
Zara approaches the stage, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “That was . . .” she pauses, searching for words. “That was what we all needed to hear.”
The other performers join me on stage for the collaborative finale, but something’s different now. They look at me not as the venue manager who gives them a platform, but as one of them. An artist who understands the cost of visibility, the price of silence, the value of finally, finally using your voice.
We build the improvised song together, each adding verses about reclamation, about resurrection, about refusing to be diminished. Melissa sings about choosing her guitar over an engagement ring. Diane adds a verse about being told she was too much and deciding that was exactly right. The sisters from Kentucky harmonize about small towns and big dreams and giving the middle finger to anyone who says different.
When my turn comes, I sing about three years of silence and how it ends tonight. About finding my voice in helping others find theirs. About collaboration that doesn’t require diminishing yourself.
The song builds to something bigger than any of us individually, a declaration of independence, a battle cry, a love letter to every woman who’s ever been told to want less.
After the last note fades, after the audience slowly filters out with hugs and promises to do this again, after Jovie helps me stack the stools and turn off the stage lights, I stand in the empty venue and breathe.
“You okay?” Jovie asks, counting the till but watching me.
“Yeah.” And for the first time in three years, I mean it. “I’m actually okay.”
“Good. Because Darian’s been texting me every five minutes asking if you’re alright, and I’m about to block his number.”
I laugh, pulling out my phone to find twelve messages from him, all variations of:Hope it’s going well. Proud of you. Can’t wait to hear about it.
The last one, sent just a minute ago:Zara said you were incredible. But I already knew that.
“You going to see him?” Jovie asks.
“Yes,” I say, surprising myself with the certainty. “But first I want to sit with this feeling.”
“What feeling?”
I think about it, searching for the right word. “Reclamation. Like I finally remembered who I am.”
“And who’s that?”
“An artist,” I say, the words feeling like coming home. “I’m an artist who happens to manage a venue, not the other way around.”
Jovie smiles. “About fucking time.”
I lock up the Songbird, guitar case in hand, and walk home through Nashville’s late-night streets. Musicians spill from other venues, the city alive with the sound of people chasing dreams, taking chances, refusing to be silent.
For the first time in three years, I feel like I belong here. Not behind the scenes, not in the shadows, but right here in the middle of it all, adding my voice to the beautiful noise.
At home, I set the guitar in its stand and pull out my notebook. Words flow onto the page, not the song I performed tonight, but something new. Something that feels like a beginning.
My phone lights up with a text from Darian:Sweet dreams, artist.
I smile, write one more line, then close the notebook. I’ll share these new words with him when I’m ready. I’ll stepback into the collaboration that scares and thrills me in equal measure.
But for now, I’m just Rye. The woman who found her voice again in a room full of other women refusing to be quiet.
And that’s enough.
darian
. . .
