Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 92749 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92749 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
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.”
Melissa takes the stage with her Taylor guitar, settling onto the stool with practiced ease. She’s maybe twenty-five, with bleached hair and tattoos covering both arms. Her first song strips me raw within three lines, a story about choosing music over stability, about her parents’ disappointment, about believing in herself when no one else would.
The room holds its breath, everyone seeing pieces of their own journey in her words. When she finishes, the applause thunders, and I watch her face transform with the realization that she’s been truly heard.
The second performer, Diane Washington, must be pushing sixty. She talks about writing songs for forty years, about the men who told her she was too old, too Black, too woman to make it in country music. Then she plays a song that makes those excuses sound like the garbage they are, her voice carrying the weight of every rejection, every dismissal, every moment she chose to keep going anyway.
Tears stream down faces throughout the room. Zara wipes her own eyes, her hand pressed to her chest like she’s physically holding the emotion in.
The third slot belongs to a duo, teenage sisters from Kentucky who harmonize like angels and write lyrics sharp enough to cut. They sing about growing up in a small town where dreams are considered dangerous, where girls are taught to want less, expect less, be less.
My chest tightens with each performance. These women aren’t just sharing songs; they’re sharing scars, turning wounds into weapons, pain into power. The collaborative finale we usually do feels too small for what’s happening here.
“Before our last performer,” I find myself saying, back on stage between sets, “I want to say something.”
The room quiets, expectant.
“Three years ago, I stopped performing. Stopped writing. Stopped believing my voice mattered.” The words tumble out unplanned. “I told myself I was better behind the scenes, supporting other artists. Safer there, definitely. But also . . . smaller.”
Jovie watches from the bar, her expression soft with understanding.
“Recently, someone reminded me that hiding isn’t the same as healing. That supporting others doesn’t mean silencing yourself.” I think of Darian, probably pacing his apartment right now, respecting my need for this space while somehow still being present in his absence. “So tonight, if you’ll let me, I’d like to share something. Not as your venue manager, but as another woman who’s been afraid to take up space.”
The applause starts before I finish speaking, building to something that makes my throat tight. I retrieve my guitar from the office, my hands shaking as I settle onto the stool. The lights feel both foreign and familiar, like meeting an old friend who’s changed but is still recognizable.
“This is a song I wrote with someone who wouldn’t let me hide,” I say, tuning quickly. “It’s about breaking patterns, about choosing different even when safe feels easier.”
The first chord rings out clear and true. My voice, when it comes, surprises me with its strength. Three years of silence haven’t weakened it; if anything, it carries more weight now, more truth.