Vulnerability has always been a cornerstone of artistic expression. From Shakespeare’s declarations of love, to Kafka’s desolate despair, to Taylor Swift’s confessions of guilt, writers have consistently put themselves under microscopes to be analyzed by critics and bibliophiles alike. I have to say, I think writers are some of the bravest people to grace this Earth.

I’ve never been one for vulnerability, whether I am on the giving or receiving end. Getting birthday cards filled with ‘I love you’s’ and ‘You’re the best thing that ever happened to me’ has always made me more uncomfortable than warm and fuzzy inside. When doing personal essays in class I shy away from discussions of myself and more towards my interests and people around me. Even in my own personal poetry and songwriting, I pull back when I think I’ve gone too far, too deep into my psyche. Too honest. I become scared that I’ve said something, I can’t take back. The only place I’ve found myself comfortable in vulnerability is music. 

I’ve been interested heavily in music since my early grade school years. I remember carrying around a hot pink mp3 player, only the size of my mother’s thumb, with cheap, pink plastic headphones to match. Among the songs on the device were “Sk8er Boi” by Avril Lavigne and a rendition of “I Want You Back” by the Jackson 5 done by the cast of Nickelodeon's Victorious. I carried it everywhere with me, finding solace in the upbeat tunes of my youth. 

When I hit middle school, and was granted unsupervised Internet access, I started exploring genres and artists, flipping through them like pages in a magazine, savoring every genre. I found myself drawn to pop punk and emo genres, and had a brief obsession with the band All Time Low, specifically the song “Therapy”. Very melodramatic for a thirteen year old, if I do say so myself. But the routine offered me a way to think through my feelings in a way that felt more distant, like the music I was relating to, wasn’t mine, and the hidden truths weren’t dangerous. When school was rough, I could go home, put in my earbuds and sulk on my bed for a few hours before dinner. As I’ve gotten older, the sulking habit has only gotten stronger, and the routine of laying in bed and thinking “Where did I go wrong?” has only stayed more consistent. The songs have changed, and so have my clothes, but the habit hasn’t.

My sulking music of choice nowadays is usually anything by Phoebe Bridgers. California born and perpetually melancholy, she’s notorious for a lack of upbeat bops in her discography, and being the pioneer of “sad girl music”. Her music consists of songs of unrequited love, general exhaustion with life, and the need to find out where she is from. When I first heard one of her songs, it was like I had been punched in the stomach. The lyric “I hate you for what you did/and I miss you like a little kid” in her song “Motion Sickness” convinced me that she was my next obsession, among many. 

Her use of the mundane and objectively strange imagery in her writing paints a picture that is uniquely painful. The song “Graceland Too”, about the love and hope she has for a friend who has been through a lot, details the friend’s journey from home, driving down the highway, and eventually laying with Bridgers’ to “chew on [their] cheeks and stare at the moon”. The line “whatever she wants”, from the song, is now synonymous with the love for a friend that is so deep you would do anything they wanted you to. I would die for my friends, so this song is one of my favorites. 

I ended up discovering her band, a supergroup of her and two other famous friends, when they released a new album and the single, “Not Strong Enough”, was dominating the airwaves. I had heard of Lucy Dacus and Julien Baker, fellow members, as they are popular in the indie scene. Dacus for her breakup song “Night Shift”, detailing her resignation to working night shifts for the rest of her life if it means she’ll never see her former lover, and Baker for her history of addiction and songs about self loathing. The three are a fun group.

The group, called boygenius, had released an EP five years earlier and went back to working alone until they released their debut LP, titled the record. I listened to the album all the way through while in art class, working on a piece about the creation of personas, and I was in awe. The three stars’ styles blended perfectly into a gold mine of an album. The aforementioned single, “Not Strong Enough”, details the general self loathings that make three feel as though they are “not strong enough to be your man”. The bridge of the song is a repetition of the line “always an angel/never a god” until all three artists are screaming the statement of inadequacy. The bridge details the relationship between Creator and the creation. Always the muse, never the poet. Always the son, never the father. Always the student, never the teacher. Always the servant, never the served. As someone who has reconciled with being second place for the rest of her life, the line struck a chord. 

At the time of listening to the album, I was struggling being in a friendship with someone I gave the world, who treated me like a nuisance. I was battling the idea of cutting ties for my own mental wellbeing. When I listened to the melancholy “Cool About It” I sobbed like a baby in my floral duvet while looking over the letters they wrote me for my birthday. The song walks the listener through a relationship (romantic or platonic, who knows?) that is marked with an undeniable strain. Julien Baker croons the line “[I’m] wishing you were kind enough to be cruel about it”, longing for a piece of brutal honesty in a long dead relationship, the bones picked clean of any tenderness that could have been offered. At the time all I wanted was for my friend to tell me where we stood, if he actually liked being around me, if he gained anything from our friendship. I was miserable. All I wanted was the truth. When Bridgers comes in singing “I can walk you home and practice method acting. I’ll pretend being with you doesn’t feel like drowning”, the desperation for clarity washes over me like a tidal wave. 

Undeniably, “We’re in Love” is the scariest song on the album. Not for any horror aspect or gorey detail, but for the song’s unwavering honesty. Dacus tells a story in interviews of showing the song to Baker, who proceeds to leave the room and run away, too intimidated by the sincerity so graciously gifted to her. 

“You could absolutely break my heart.

That’s how I know that we’re in love.” 

I would run away too. The presentation of such unwavering love and admiration is intimidating to anyone that struggles with self loathing. It is a statement of unconditional love that seems implausible when you have spent so long believing you are deeply flawed, almost biblically, a descendant of Cain cursed for evil and suffering. Dacus’ ability to use the word love to describe her friendships is a radical act in the face of a culture that puts emphasis on the romantic and heteronormative, as well. The idea that friendship can fulfill a person the same way romantic relationships can is exemplified in many of Dacus’ songs she’s taken the lead on, including “True Blue”. 

“True Blue” tells the story of a longstanding relationship, shaken but never cut down. Dacus sings of their friend’s spontaneous trip to the beach and their moving to Chicago, just being thankful they’re alive. The mundanity of the descriptions followed by Dacus’ confession of love, fills the listener with warmth. It presents the idea that you don’t have to be this perfect and mesmerizing idea of a person to be loved so endlessly. Dacus offers honesty in the line “You’ve never done me wrong, except for that one time”. She quickly follows it up with “...it doesn’t matter anymore. Who won the fight? I don’t know; we’re not keeping score.” The singer puts the past disagreements and rejection aside, to say that she cares too much to let it come between something so important.

  The song “Leonard Cohen” is another one on deep friendship, also mostly performed by Dacys. The line “I never thought you’d happen to me” fills me with warmth and love everytime I listen, thinking of those that have truly shaped me and softened my rough edges, like saltwater on ancient pebbles. Vulnerability is something boygenius has decided to embrace rather than avoid, despite Baker’s runaway stunt. The bandmates love each other and proudly declare it. Love is often seen as a weakness that gives people ammunition against you, and boygenius decides to “[push] the flowers that come up into the front of a shotgun.”

In my art, especially writing, I’ve struggled with feeling overdramatic or idiotic for expressing love or being upset or anything that makes me vulnerable. I’ve been terrified of rejection; scared of being perceived as just another melodramatic teenager. Being able to watch public figures sincerely declare love for one another is an inspiration. Women who are in their late twenties being unapologetic for their sappy feelings have inspired me to let myself be open, with fear of rejection only an afterthought.  I’m no longer afraid of my honesty being used against me.

I’ve found my writing to be more honest lately. I treat my art less like something to be consumed and more like an outlet I use to think through things. I can work through situations and come to new conclusions. I can tell my own personal truths and be less afraid of the perception that may follow. I’ve started to tell my friends I love them more. I tell them they mean the world to me. I write it down, too.