Notes from a Seattle Singer-Songwriter Navigating Grief Through Music
How a slow-blooming voice found its way into song
I didn’t start singing until I turned 50. I’d spent most of my life behind the drums—supporting other people’s stories, hiding my own voice. My high school choir teacher once told me to just mouth the words. I was way out of tune in that tone-deaf way people joke about, but mostly, I was just deeply insecure.
My book Doubt Riding Shotgun
They say the gift of your 50s is that you stop caring what people think. That’s partly true. But I also had to unlearn years of “musician baggage”—my trained ear judging the squeaks and squawks before anything honest could emerge.
The Brothers Koren helped me become rough clay again, willing to be shaped by something new at a ripe old age. And grief helped, too. It has a way of stripping you down. It made me sit at the piano, open my mouth, and write songs I needed to hear.
I used to say I was just learning to write songs. Now I can say it plainly: I’m a Seattle-based singer-songwriter.
The Sound of Letting Go
Meet Me in the Mourning is a collection of songs written in the aftermath of personal loss and released over two years, one track at a time.
The first was “Run with the Dog,” a tribute to my best friend Bill, who died of colon cancer in his 50s. I wrote “Down River” while grieving my father. And after hearing of Brad Houser’s stroke and death—my friend and occasional collaborator—I wrote “Green Room.” Brad, a brilliant bassist, played on some of my ambient work. He left this world too soon.
These songs weren’t written for an audience. But there’s healing in sharing them. Each time I sing them, I well up—yet I feel stronger. Like I’m claiming something for myself and offering it to the world. These songs helped me stay afloat during grief’s destabilizing waves. Looking back, I see them as both a rite of passage and a homecoming.
Mourning in the Pacific Northwest
There’s something about the Seattle rain that makes space for this kind of work. I’ve found healing in songwriting, and also in sharing—at open mics, in community, and now in studio recordings.
Becoming a songwriter later in life has felt surprisingly natural. In a way, it’s a return to my roots. I played drums in Seattle’s historic music scene during the 1990s. The Pacific Northwest holds a quiet, creative undercurrent. I’m lucky to be part of it again.
From Grief to Growth
Meet Me in the Mourning isn’t just about loss. It’s about receiving support. Mourning out loud. Letting go of failures that no longer matter. The album is full of layered harmonies, ambient textures, and soul-forward storytelling—a blend of Bill Withers, Prince, Peter Gabriel, and something uniquely me.
If you’ve ever held back your voice, doubted your timing, or carried grief with no words—I hope these recordings offer you a kindred spirit. And maybe, a path forward.
A Song That Hurts to Hear
I released Run with the Dog two years ago, when my voice was still raw—pitchy, unsure, full of pain. It’s hard to listen to now. But there’s something pure in it. Something untouched by polish. It came straight from the gut.
Run with the Dog, my old boy is shooting the lights out
Dancing in the fog, you have to remind me that it’s night outHe doesn’t feel any of my pain
And I want to rack them up for one last game
It’s about Bill, yes. But it’s also about everything I wish I could change. And how music became the way to say it.
Why Art Helps Us Grieve (and Heal)
As a coach, I wondered whether grief and songwriting could coexist—and heal. The answer, backed by research, is yes.
Creative expression externalizes pain: According to Death Studies, art-making lets us symbolically “speak to the dead” and reconstruct meaning.
➤ You don’t have to make sense of grief—you just have to make something.
Art reduces emotional suffering: Studies show that creative work lowers cortisol, boosts emotional flexibility, and activates pleasure centers.
➤ Even humming can help you feel different and move pain to a safer place.
It gives shape to the unspeakable: Whether it’s ambiguous loss, identity shifts, or silence, art is a language beyond words.
➤ It makes space for feeling without explanation.
Prompts for Processing Grief Through Creativity
If you're grieving—a person, a dream, a version of yourself—here are a few ways to begin:
🎶 Write a lyric from a sentence you’d say to them if you could.
🎨 Collage what grief feels like—not what it looks like.
📝 Keep a “compost notebook” of raw scraps. No editing, no judgment.
🐾 Make a playlist called “Songs They Would Love” and play it often.
🌀 Give yourself permission to “do it wrong.” Grief is personal, and there’s no correct shape for it.
Meet Me in the Mourning
I didn’t know I was making an album, but this collection of songs is powerful and personal to me. You never know what’s inside you until you start listening.
This album isn’t just about pain. It’s about support, surrender, and showing up for yourself in whatever state you’re in. I hope that in hearing these songs, others feel a little more permission to grieve, to create, or to begin again.
Sometimes mourning opens a door. Mine is still spilling out into new songs. But I’m learning to write with more intention now—and to let a little sunlight in. I’m devoted to learning more about my emotions and sharing what’s true.Please share or comment on this post if you felt it was worth your while. You might help someone else.
