I almost didn’t go.
I wasn’t sure if I had the energy.
I wasn’t sure if it would be “worth it.”
Even minutes before I left, I debated staying at the hotel — taking a walk on the rocky beach, making a cup of tea, and reading a book in front of the fireplace.
But something nudged me.
A small yes.
A quiet voice saying: Go.
A few Saturdays ago, I found myself at the Port Ludlow Performing Arts Center, watching the Barbra Lica Quintet perform for a lively — and mostly retirement-age — crowd.
I might have been the youngest person there by a good twenty years.
And oddly, that felt like exactly where I belonged.
Not from vanity.
But from the feeling of being surrounded by so much life lived. So much wisdom earned.
The energy in the room was something you could feel — calm, kind, content.
Friends and neighbors stopping to greet each other in the aisles.
A friendly “hello,” a gentle touch.
A little joke about needing a shawl because the AC was “set for penguins.”
Even perfect strangers, noticing the new face in the room (me), smiled and said hello without hesitation.
No rush.
No posturing.
Just presence.
I set up shop in my favorite spot — a quiet back corner where I could watch the room without needing to be in it.
It’s always been my way of feeling safe and connected at the same time.
Observing the energy. Listening before speaking. Feeling before acting.
(Classic neurodivergent strategy.)
The announcer, a white-haired gentleman in a sparkling black blazer, stepped onto the stage.
He thanked the donors, the volunteers, the sponsors — slipping in jokes about poor eyesight, unprepared notes, and having more seats than parking spots.
It was charming, imperfect, human.
And it set the tone for the night.
Then the lights dimmed, the band tuned up — and it happened.
That familiar, overwhelming wave.
Joy so big it twisted in my chest, rose into my throat, and spilled out as laughter and tears at the same time.
Only this time — maybe for the first time ever — I didn’t fight it.
I didn’t swallow it down.
I didn’t apologize.
I just let it move through me.
Freedom.
It wasn’t neat.
It wasn’t quiet.
It wasn’t socially acceptable.
It was messy.
It was big.
It was real.
For so much of my life, I tried to suppress these intense emotional waves — a feature of my AuDHD (Autism + ADHD) brain that I was taught to be ashamed of. That I am only now being to understand with my very late diagnosis (5 months ago).
Growing up, if I cried out of frustration or overstimulation, I was met with:
“Why are you crying? Stop it.”
“Stop being so sensitive.”
Somewhere along the way, I learned to fear my own feelings.
To see them as a problem.
Something to hide.
Something to fix.
It took decades to understand that my emotions weren’t wrong.
They were real.
They were beautiful.
They are real and beautiful.
Tonight, for the first time, I honored them in public without apology.
As Barbra Lica began to sing, I found myself tapping my toes, swaying gently in my seat, smiling through damp eyelashes.
I had listened to her music a few days earlier.
I liked it — especially songs like:
“Girls Like Me.”
“In 40 Years.”
“Imposter Syndrome.”
Her new song, “The Things We Don’t Say,” had been playing on loop on Spotify — I sang along for an hour or more without even realizing it.
🎶 Want to get lost in “The Things We Don’t Say” by Barbra Lica? Listen here.
But live?
Live was something else entirely.
She wasn’t just performing.
She was storytelling.
She invited us into her messy, hilarious, vulnerable world — sharing stories that were both heartbreakingly honest and wildly funny.
Stories about anxious attachment, about needing constant reassurance from her husband, about buying groceries once and expecting a parade.
(Only to be met with the immortal words: “Do you want a trophy?”)
At one point, I thought, She might actually be my husband in a tiny woman’s body.
Her stories — funny, self-deprecating, painfully real — opened something in me.
Not an erasure of the hurt I’ve carried.
Not a justification for the behaviors that still need to change.
But space — created by witnessing someone being so open, honest, and willing to be fully herself.
Space to recognize that wounded people sometimes wound others.
That love and hurt often live side by side in the same messy heart.
That healing sometimes looks like feeling everything — all the hurt, all the compassion, all the bewildered, beautiful aliveness — at once.
I’m not sure what it all means yet.
I’m still sitting with it.
Still feeling it move through me.
But for now, I know this:
Healing doesn’t always arrive the way we expect.
Sometimes it sneaks in through music, strangers’ smiles, and the courage to feel everything — even when it doesn’t make sense.
Author’s Note:
This piece first lived on Medium. But it never felt finished until it landed here—among the other half-spoken truths and sacred unravelings.
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