How Live Music Brought Me Back to Life After Divorce

After my separation, I didn’t recognize myself.

The woman staring back at me in the mirror looked familiar, but she was hollowed out. She smiled when necessary. She showed up for the kids. She checked off the to-do list (mostly).

But joy? Passion? A sense of aliveness?

Gone.

In those early months post-divorce, the silence was the loudest thing in my life. It crept in during the evenings, after the kids were in bed. It sat with me on weekends when they were at their dad’s. It filled every quiet car ride and every empty morning.

And then—at the suggestion of my therapist—I found my way back to something that used to light me up: live music.

Showing Up Solo

It was midweek—maybe a Tuesday or Wednesday. My kids were with their dad. At the end of my session, my therapist asked what my plans were for the evening.

It had been a particularly weepy day, so I half-laughed and said,
“Nothing, as usual.”

She didn’t hesitate.
“Go to a concert,” she said.

It was maybe 5 or 6 PM, but her words felt like a command from the universe.

I went online and found a ticket to see Charlie Starr and Benji Shanks (neither of whom I’d heard of—nor their band, Blackberry Smoke) at a local venue called The Grey Eagle.

At first, it felt weird and vulnerable—walking into a venue alone, pretending I was totally cool sitting on an empty bench against the wall.

There weren’t many people there (this was still during Covid), but I couldn’t help but notice couples leaning into each other, friends sharing drinks and selfies, and what felt like a million eyes on me—lonely and by myself.

But when the lights dimmed and the music started?

I wasn’t alone.

There’s something sacred about being in a room full of strangers, all caught in the same soundwave. We don’t know each other’s stories, but we’re moved by the same melody. We’re letting go in the same rhythm.

And in that space, I started to feel something I hadn’t felt in a long time:

Me.

Not the mom, not the ex, not the woman holding everything together.
Just…me. Feeling. Breathing. Existing. Alive.

New Artists, New Identity

I started going to more shows. Weeknight ones. Outdoor ones. Intimate acoustic ones where the lyrics hit a little too close to home—in the best way.

I followed Spotify rabbit holes. I asked friends for artist recommendations.

One of them gave me the most poignant advice:
Delete all your old favorites and start fresh.
Find one new artist you like, and let Spotify build a new world from there.

(It felt like a metaphor for life in that moment.)

It was like I was rediscovering who I was—
one song at a time.

I realized I’d let so many parts of myself go silent in my marriage and motherhood journey.
Now, with each live set, a little piece of me turned the volume back up.

The Sound of Healing

One night, I ended up at a Gregory Alan Isakov show at the Orange Peel. I had bought two tickets despite not having a planned date, so I invited a woman I had recently met through work—someone who loved music as much as I did.

I hadn’t heard much of his music before, but the moment he started singing, it felt like he was reading pages from a diary I hadn’t even written yet.

His voice was like a warm ache. His lyrics, quiet little truths.

And his commentary? Unexpectedly affirming.

After playing "Big Black Car," he joked that it was the only song of his you might hear in public—and even then, it would probably be at the grocery store.

It was self-deprecating and vulnerable. Here was a brilliant, soulful artist… still unsure whether the world really saw him.

Then, during the encore, he opened up about struggling with anxiety. He said his friends often called him when they were stressed—maybe something about his voice calmed them.

Oh, if he only knew.

That night, I cried. Not from sadness exactly—but from the relief of feeling again.

It was like my soul had been waiting for the right soundtrack to come home to itself.

(I went home that night and immediately bought another ticket to his show in Nashville at The Ryman two nights later and booked a hotel. To call it an out-of-body experience would be accurate.)

Music Saved Me

Going to shows by myself (and eventually with new friends and my daughter) became a ritual. It was something I did for me—not to heal faster, not to prove anything, not to meet someone new.

Just to feel connected to life again.

And little by little, I started building a new playlist of who I was becoming.

Now, when women in my coaching work tell me they feel numb or lost after divorce, I always ask:

“What used to make you feel most alive?”

For me, the answer was found under stage lights, in quiet lyrics and deep bass drops, and among strangers who didn’t know my story—but unknowingly helped me write a new one.

Your Turn

So if you’re in the thick of it—divorce, grief, reinvention—let me say this:

Go to the concert.
Even if it means going alone.
Especially if it means going alone.

Because sometimes, the way back to yourself is just one song away.