The Song That Broke Me Open

The other night, I sat down at the piano for the first time in far too long. Not to rehearse. Not to perform. Just to be inside the music again. I used to play almost every day when I was still teaching. Back then, music wrapped itself around my entire world—classrooms humming with harmony, laughter echoing through the halls, my hands always reaching for the keys, my voice blending with others. I lived in sound. It held me steady.

But lately? I’ve been without one of the few sanctuaries that truly ground me. In the busyness of building this dream, I’ve let that part of myself go quiet. And I’ve felt it. Especially now.

It’s mid-November, and everything feels a little heavier. The holidays are approaching. Finances are tight. Emotionally, I’ve been worn thin. Even a spontaneous evening drive to search for the northern lights didn’t lift the fog—I was hoping the sky would crack open for me, but it stayed dark.

That night, I told my husband I wanted to play the piano… but the headphone adapter had been missing for weeks, and I didn’t want to disturb anyone. He said, without hesitation, “Play anyway.” So I did.

I walked into my studio and sat down at the piano.The lights were low. The house was still.

And there, waiting patiently, was one of my own Yule songs: The Longest Night.

The sheet music sat in front of me like an old friend who never stopped hoping I’d come back.

I placed my hands on the keys. A few wrong notes. A deep breath. And then… it began to return.

The Longest Night is the first of three songs I’ve written to honor Yule. It flows like a winter story—gentle, steady, full of reverence for the stillness. As I played and began to sing, something shifted inside me. A spark I hadn’t felt in months began to flicker again. I smiled without meaning to.

And then came the chorus—my favorite part. It builds, rises, swells. I always look forward to the way it lifts me.

But this time, just as I reached for the climax, my voice broke. Literally. My throat tightened.The tears came fast.And I couldn’t finish the phrase. The emotion that had been building inside me—not just from the song, but from weeks of holding everything together—spilled out all at once. I did my best to finish the piece. Then I sat still, letting the tears fall, letting the song carry what I couldn’t name.

Later, I played a few more—some of my own, and then familiar Christmas songs like Believe and A Soldier’s King. Familiar melodies wrapped around me like a soft quilt. My shoulder complained, but my heart felt better.

No, it didn’t fix everything. My life is still a bit of a beautiful mess. But that night, I ended my evening lighter.I went to sleep in peace.

If you’ve ever felt too full to speak…If you’ve ever needed something safe enough to fall apart inside…Then you know what that moment meant to me.

Music never fails me. It is my sanctuary. My compass. My lantern in the dark. When I forget who I am, it always reminds me:You can still be broken and still be beautiful.Still soft and still strong. Still singing, even if your voice shakes.