Quiet Confessions, Episode 32: Dear Brandi Carlile - A Soundtrack For My Fight

This week, Chelsea steps away from their typical format to "try again" at a moment they’ve replayed for twenty years. At sixteen, Chelsea met their hero, Brandi Carlile, and was left stumbling over words, unable to express the profound impact of her music. 

Now, in their late 30s, navigating life as a disabled, non-binary, and chronically ill parent, Chelsea uses this space to pen an open letter to the artist who has been the "steady hand" on their shoulder through every storm.

Chelsea reflects on how Brandi’s discography served as a lifeline during mental health mayhem, gender identity journeys, and the "pitch black void" of perinatal mental health struggles. From psychiatric hospitalizations to living room concerts with their "neuro-sparkly" children, Chelsea shares how specific songs like The Mother, The Joke, and The Story helped them navigate the specific shame and beauty of being a disabled mom. 

This episode is a raw testament to the power of art to save a life hundreds of times over.

🗝️Key Takeaways

• The Impact of Art on Survival: Chelsea credits Brandi Carlile’s music as a primary reason they are "still breathing" after two decades of mental and physical health challenges.
• Navigating Disability and Motherhood: Being a disabled mom involves a "specific kind of mess" that requires relying on others to carry a load you wish you could carry yourself, often accompanied by heavy guilt and shame.
• Music as a Clinical Tool: Chelsea recounts singing lyrics softly at the suggestion of kind nurses to survive endless nights during psychiatric hospitalizations.
• Identity and Duality: Through their journey as a non-binary and queer individual, Chelsea found comfort in the idea that one can be "mainstream and a misfit at the same time".
• Vulnerability as Light: Instead of hiding "broken parts," Chelsea discusses learning that these vulnerabilities are what actually "let the light in". 

💬Sound Bites

• "How do you tell a person in 30 seconds behind a merch table that they are the reason that you're still breathing?"
• "I've spent much of my life in a body that feels like a house on fire."
• "Being a disabled mom is a specific kind of mess. It means relying on everyone else to carry the load I wish I could carry."
• "Your music reminds me that right isn't a straight line."
• "Our stories don't mean anything if we've got no one to tell them to."

Links & Resources

• Music Highlight: The Mother by Brandi Carlile (A reflection on the mess and beauty of parenthood)
• Support Resource: National Suicide Prevention Lifeline (988) 

This episode discusses topics that may be triggering for some individuals. Please check the show notes for more information and be mindful of your own mental health and comfort levels.

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Transcript

Chelsea Myers (00:01)
Welcome to quiet confessions. That was terrible.

Welcome to Quiet Confessions, a weekly mini episode where you and I get to hang out and just kind of share space for whatever's going on in my life. This week's going to be a little bit different. They say you should never meet your heroes because they'll disappoint you, but I met mine when I was 16 and I made a complete fool of myself. I was a shaking, awkward mess.

a complete idiot, stumbling over my words because how do you tell a person in 30 seconds behind a merch table that they are the reason that you're still breathing? So this week, I'm shamelessly using this space to try again. And while I highly doubt Brandy will ever hear this, there's always that glimmer of hope, right? So here goes. Brandy.

As in Brandy Carlisle, you don't know me. I'm just a voice in a sea of thousands and thousands of people singing your lyrics back to you. But for over 20 years, you have been the steady hand on my shoulder and the quiet voice in my head. I've spent much of my life in a body that feels like a house on fire.

My childhood and teens were a storm of mental health mayhem and trauma that I'm not going to get lost in right now. Through early adulthood, figuring out my identity as a non-binary and queer individual, and navigating my first pregnancy, I found myself lost deep in a pitch black void too often to count.

Now in my late 30s, my life has been flipped completely on its head again. After having my youngest, I became disabled, chronically ill and immune compromised. I spent weeks, even months isolated in bedrooms or hospital rooms, watching the world and my own children move on without me. There were nights when the silence of being sick

mentally or physically, was too loud. And in those moments, I didn't put on a self-help podcast or a true crime podcast or any kind of podcast. I didn't look for a cure. I looked for your voice. I've leaned on the story when I needed reflection. Again today, when I've felt more like a burden than a person. The mother and you without me.

when I've felt completely disconnected from my role as a mom. And I've used the joke as a shield when the world felt too small for people like me and my neuro-sparkly family.

Your voice has literally carried me through every major life event. From surgeries to cross country road trips. Nope, I never went cross country. From surgeries to road trips, late night conversations to OCD spirals, DIY concerts in my living room. Okay, I gotta say that again. DIY concerts with my kids in the living room to suicidal ideation and psychiatric hospitalization.

I can't count the number of times I softly sang, again today, or little blue, at the su- blech, at the suggestion of an especially kind nurse to help me find my way through the seemingly endless nights. You talk a lot in The Mother about sacrifice and the beauty inside the mess. Being a disabled mom is a specific kind of mess. It means relying on everyone else to carry the load

I wish I could carry. And it comes with a heavy side of shame, guilt, and embarrassment. But your music reminds me that right isn't a straight line. You taught me that you can be mainstream and a misfit at the same time. You taught me that my broken parts aren't something to hide. They're the parts that let the light in. So

This is my desperate reach. I'm not 16 anymore. I'm not shaking. I'm not stumbling over my words. I'm a mom, a fighter, and a survivor. I wanted to tell you, even if this only ever lives in the airwaves of this podcast, that you saved my life. Not once, but a hundred times. Sorry.

Not once, but hundreds of times over the last 20 plus years. Brandi, thank you for staying in the fight so that people like me have a soundtrack for hours. And listeners, thank you to everyone who has stuck around this long through my journey. I realize again, this isn't our typical content, but I appreciate you holding space with me. Because after all,

Our stories don't mean anything if we've got no one to tell them to. Now go get a fresh water bottle, add your favorite flavor of electrolytes, and do something kind for yourself and someone you love today. And tell the person that means the world to you exactly that. I'll see you next week.