Between Creativity and Healing

Creativity isn’t just about art, it’s about giving an experience somewhere to go. People often reach for creative outlets during hard times. Sometimes what we feel is too difficult to be talked through initially.

Creativity lets emotion move before it makes sense. We can express ourselves without words. In therapy, this shows up in metaphors, stories, and in imagined futures. People relate to pain differently.

Creativity restores a sense of agency. When we get stuck, making something gives us an opportunity to loosen our perspective.

You don’t need talent. You just need willingness. Healing isn’t always about fixing what’s broken. Sometimes it’s about creating space for changing old things up.

Healing Doesn’t Have to Be Fast to Be Real

Bruce Springsteen’s Long Time Coming reminds me of the Roman God, Janus, which represents standing in the doorway between the past and the future. In Springsteen’s song he sings about old dysfunctional family patterns and the hope for something better.

The song is about breaking cycles. It’s about wanting to show up differently than the people who shaped you. Wanting your kids, or your partner, or your future self to inherit something gentler than what you grew up with.

The premise of the song is that change is slow, sometimes awkward, and always full of moments relearning how to live. But that’s the insight, healing that sticks is earned through slow, painful movement. Healing comes through untangling years of old habits and hurt.

Some of us face our healing on an idol Tuesday when we’re 50. Some of us are forced into it at 13. But we all arrive to it at some capacity. The doorway that Janus stands at represents a noticing of the fork we stand at, and the potential to live a little differently and love a little more deeply. It’s a long time coming, and now it’s here

Here’s a cover of the song.

https://youtu.be/NCaanneec18?si=e0TFHtdrh3VYup9x

On Singing: Reflections on Rebekah Brandes’ article

Rebekah Brandes writes that singing isn’t just for musicians, it’s for everyone. Her article, “Are You Singing Enough?”, explores how something as simple as singing can support our mental, emotional, and physical well being. From a therapist’s perspective, it’s a powerful reminder that healing doesn’t always happen through talking or thinking. Sometimes it begins with breath, vibration, and sound.

Singing helps regulate the body.

Brandes reports that singing lowers stress hormones and activates the body’s calming system through deep, rhythmic breathing. Even humming can settle the nervous system. It’s one of the easiest ways to bring the body back to a state of balance . We could think of it as an act of self-care.

It connects us.

When we sing with others, our bodies release oxytocin, which promotes bonding and feeling safe. In a world where isolation is rampant, singing together can increase a sense of belonging. Whether it’s joining a choir, singing at church, or belting out a song in the car with friends, it’s a way to connect.

It invites play.

Many people say, “I can’t sing.” But what if it’s not about talent? What if it’s about reconnecting with joy, curiosity, and freedom. Those are the parts of ourselves that often go quiet under stress.

Brandes’ question, “Are you singing enough?” becomes something deeper yet. It asks, “Are you allowing yourself to be heard? Are you hearing yourself?”

Sometimes the most healing sound isn’t beautiful or polished. Take Kurt Cobain or Tom Waits for example. The voice is about the expression of the what’s real, what’s raw, and what’s alive.

One Sunday Morning

Wilco’s “One Sunday Morning” is a quiet, meandering song about family, deficiency, and the complexity of love. It doesn’t move quickly, but invites us to slow down and turn inward.

Tweedy sings:

“And your father’s last words,
Were ‘I can’t believe
What I’ve done…’”

These lines reflect the weight of regret that many of us carry, even when it isn’t our own. Therapy often becomes a space to explore how the echoes of time, the memory of words behind us, or words never said continue to shape us.

Later, he admits, “I said it’s your God I don’t believe in.” This line captivates the tender pain of stepping away from someone else’s beliefs. When we do that it can feel both freeing and lonely. It’s a reminder that growth sometimes asks us to create distance without rejecting those we love.

Tweedy also sings, “I was told the world would never end.” That lyric carries both innocence and disillusionment. It’s like those moments when we’re confronted with the limitations of our childhood certainties and they slip away from us to adult realities, sort of like an annihilation of a worldview. In therapy, many of us return to moments of reckoning, reinvestigating what something was and learning how to grieve what we once believed while opening space up for a new kind of hope.

And then, the refrain: “One Sunday morning, the end of it all.” It returns again and again, just as a memory returns in waves. The song holds a quiet wisdom, that healing isn’t about closure, but about learning to carry both love and hurt side by side. Like this song, we can practice simply being with the tension: listening, breathing, remembering, and trusting that meaning can grow even in what we don’t fully understand.

Songwriting for Self Knowledge

Songwriting is more than a creative outlet, it’s a mirror. For many, the process of writing lyrics and melodies becomes a powerful way to uncover emotions that are difficult to name. Unlike journaling, which tends to focus on direct narration, songwriting allows us to layer thoughts with metaphor, rhythm, and sound, offering a different language for what lives beneath the surface.

When we write songs, we’re often surprised by what comes out. A single line can reveal an old belief, a hidden fear, or a longing we didn’t know we carried. The act of crafting verses pushes us to ask deeper questions: What am I really trying to say? Why does this line feel true? Through this process, songwriting becomes an internal dialogue, a space where we slow down enough to hear ourselves.

It also invites flexibility. A verse that once felt raw can evolve into something hopeful. A chorus might carry anger one day, and clarity the next. This fluidity mirrors personal growth. Our understanding of ourselves is always shifting, and songwriting gives us a way to track that evolution over time.

Whether you’re a trained musician or someone humming into a phone recorder, songwriting can be a deeply therapeutic tool. It doesn't demand perfection. It just asks that you listen, stay curious, and let the song lead you a little closer to who you are.