When the Music Fades: Holding On Through the Silence

It’s Easter weekend, and everything feels a little heavier.

This time of year used to be special. Easter was one of my mom’s favorite holidays—second only to Christmas. She lit up with joy knowing we’d all be together, even if just for a day. She made it matter. Now, the house is quiet, and I find myself scrolling through social media, watching everyone else post pictures with their families, their kids, their smiles. And here I sit—alone.

Even now, as I write this, there are people in the house—doing their own things, lost in their own lives. Which I totally understand. But I still feel alone. That kind of emptiness doesn’t come from physical space—it comes from feeling disconnected, unseen, and forgotten.

Holidays always hit different for me now. They don’t feel warm or magical—they feel like a spotlight on everything and everyone that’s missing. Having lost my mom, my dad, my pugbug, close friends and someone I was once married to… it’s like every holiday is a reminder of all the pieces of my heart that are no longer here.

When I got the call that Jason—my ex-husband—was dying, it was on the very date we were married back in 1994. And just four days later, I got the call that he had passed. I didn’t think it would affect me the way it did. After all, we hadn’t been in each other’s lives for a long time. But it shattered something in me. Maybe because I see him in our son Skylar’s eyes every day. Maybe because he was wild, passionate, music-loving—raw and real—and brought out the part of me that was loud and alive. Everyone said I was the female version of him. Losing him felt like losing a version of myself, and I haven’t quite felt whole since.

And then… I lost my Pugbug.

He was my shadow, my heart, my everything. For over 14 years, he gave me comfort and companionship in a way no words can truly describe. Through heartbreak, anxiety, change—he was always there. When he left, it did me in mentally. I’m still not out of that place. I smile. I laugh. I go through the motions. But inside, there’s a hole where he —and so much else—used to be.

Then there was the music—something my parents gave me the love for. It connected me to them. It connected me to friends I’ve lost. It connected me to Jason, after all we did meet at Harpos through mutual friends. It gave me an identity. A purpose. A heartbeat. Losing the music—the way I once lived it, shared it, created space for it—feels like losing another piece of myself.

Back in the day, weekends were for concerts, road trips to Harpos, dancing, and hanging out at my apartment or shacktown when we moved there. God, I miss those days. I miss us. Moving three hours away from all of that felt like I left that part of myself behind—but then I started doing shows. Thanks to Damien. I built something here. And for a while, it brought the spark back. Working with bands, building connections, making magic happen—it gave me hope and excitement. It gave me something to live for.

Now, it’s different. The venues are gone. One even became a Taco Bell. The community support disappeared. And I’ve gone back to sitting here alone, with my Spotify playlists playing in the background—just trying to hold onto that spark. Trying to feel close to something that once filled me with life.

Next weekend, I’m putting on my first show in a long time—during the National Trout Festival. And while I don’t feel the excitement like I used to, I’m bringing in Mick Blankenship—not because he’s famous, but because I believe in his heart, his drive, his love for music. That’s what this is all about. That’s what it’s always been about.

But still, the loneliness creeps in. I miss live music. I miss dancing. I miss my friends. I miss the version of myself that felt fearless, wild, alive. Now, life just feels like work, sleep, repeat. Weekends spent cleaning, cooking, paying bills—just trying to stay ahead while feeling more behind every day.

The broken promises from those who said they’d be there still sting. I don’t ask for much. Just honesty, consistency, realness. And it hurts to feel like I’ve become invisible to people I once held so close.

These blogs—these words—they help. They’re a way for me to get it off my chest. A way to give people a look inside my world, my heart. A way to let others know they’re not alone. And maybe, just maybe, a way for my kids to see the parts of me I don’t always show—the vulnerable parts. The tired parts. The parts that are still trying.

Because the truth is, only a few people really know me. The real me. The one underneath all the strength and smiles.

But there is still a spark. I’ve reconnected with people from my past, and with them, comes the memory of who I used to be—the loud, fun, crazy rocker chick who lived for the next show, the next song, the next night out dancing with friends. And while I don’t know if I’ll ever be exactly who I was, I do know this:

Music is the one constant thing in my life. Whether it’s a road trip to a concert to see old friends and make new ones—or just Spotify blaring through the speakers reminding me of a time that meant the world to me—music never left. And neither will I.

Love, light, memories and loud music 🤘

Mickeu