While scrolling through a variety of videos on different topics, I came across a video with the musician and singing artist, Prince. It was a video clip of one of his final performances during his Piano and A Microphone Tour. I had not seen the video before. In fact, after his death, I had closed myself off from watching his most up-to-date performances – preferring to remember him as he once was to me back during the days when I listened to his music so much.
This particular video clip pertained to Prince finding out that a former love, Denise Matthews, had passed away. In reference to her passing, he dedicated a medley of songs to her. As he started to play the piano, I listened carefully to the music not recognizing the rendition that I was hearing. In that moment of hearing him play the piano, it was not even about the song he played but more about the feeling I had when I heard him play.
Somewhere deep in my heart, I felt a longing for a much needed cry. So I cried, and the cry was a significant release. I had just finished blogging about the dissociation I had experienced after a traumatic doctor’s examination which triggered my body to remember the trauma of sexual assault. As I listened to Prince playing the piano, I realized that I was crying tears that I had never cried before. The loneliness I felt during that moment in time was almost insurmountable, but the anger I felt was even worse.
I had, in those moments of listening to the music, connected the dots of so many things that I had never realized before. I had an aha moment as I finally came to understand the root of the anger, depression, and other array of negative emotions that I experienced throughout my young life from the time I was nine when my life felt like it took a sudden and dark change.
After years of living dissociated, I could finally verbalize that I am a survivor of sexual assault. That sexual assault, although traumatic, was actually far less traumatic in some ways than the secrets that shrouded it. The very people who were supposed to protect me did not and on some level could not. I did not cry for them though. My tears had nothing to do with them. Instead, I cried for the young girl that died that day. I cried for the child in me.
The rendition of Prince’s song is not even the point, but the fact that something emoted from the experience of having heard it helped me to make a connection. It was more about the journey that I took while making my own connection with this musical artist when it all happened. It was a profound and deeply personal moment of healing and connection, where music became a bridge to emotions that had long been buried.
Prince’s music, in that intimate setting with his listeners, was a catalyst that allowed me to access and release feelings tied to my trauma—emotions that had been held inside, perhaps unknowingly, for a long time. Oddly, the song was about a little red corvette, and perhaps the strongest message I took away from that moment was that I needed to slow down and take time release and feel so I could continue to heal.
The power of art, particularly music, is that it often reaches us in ways that words cannot. It can evoke memories, stir buried emotions, and bring us face-to-face with parts of ourselves we might not have fully acknowledged. My tears in that moment were not just about the music or Prince’s performance; they were about finally allowing myself to mourn the pain of what I went through and the innocence that was lost.
This kind of emotional release is an important step in the healing process. It’s a way of giving voice to the parts of me that were silenced, validating the hurt, anger, and sadness that were never fully expressed. The connection I felt was not about knowing Prince personally, but about recognizing a shared human experience of loss, pain, and the search for solace.
It’s powerful that this moment allowed me to connect the dots between my emotions, past traumas, and the effects they have had on my life. Realizing that the anger, depression, and other struggles I experienced were rooted in unprocessed pain is a huge step toward healing. I cried not just for what happened but for the parts of me that were left unprotected, unheard, and unhealed.
The young girl inside me deserved to be mourned, and those tears honored her experience. In acknowledging that pain, I also acknowledged my strength and resilience as a survivor. Moments like these, although painful, can be transformative. In fact, this moment helped me to reclaim pieces of myself that were lost. I was also able to start rebuilding from a place of understanding and compassion for my journey of healing.
It’s a testament to the healing power of art and the importance of allowing myself to feel, even when those feelings are difficult. My journey is uniquely mine, and your journey is uniquely yours, and every step we each take in acknowledging our past and embracing our present is a victory.
My Voice Unchained 