It’s All Gravy, Baby


Took this at a beautiful little birthday potluck for a friend of mine and something about it struck me.  This year a big lesson for me has been that I am enough.  My words, my voice, my body–it’s enough.  The sign doesn’t say “you’re dish is good” or “it’ll do in a pinch.”  It is a blessing.  Whatever you bring to the table in life is your gift and it is perfect.  For today, join me and appreciate your own beautiful being as it is.  Know that you can’t say the wrong thing and whatever you bring to the table, well, it’s all gravy baby.


Enter The Siren or Guts & Gucci

     Tomorrow is my birthday and it seems to always mark not just the change of the seasons, but a change of tide for me. The last year has been full of so many lessons, so many extreme highs and lows and it has all caused me to take a step back and reevaluate things.  From a small town girl clumsily strumming my guitar and cathartically weeping words of heartbreak I had yet to experience, to the materialization of said heartbreak and working side by side with some of the top writers and producers in the music industry, the idiom has certainly rung true that the difficult part is not in getting what you want, but figuring out what exactly that is. Let me rewind for a minute and tell the story of how I got here;


     At what seemed to be a pinnacle point in my career, adorned with my first pair of Gucciʼs and suddenly tasting a life that would evoke envy from the most virtuous of budding rock stars, I heard a little voice in my gut screaming like a Siren. Something was off and in spite of the glitz and glamour, I knew I was dimming my star and allowing others to dictate my career path. It was decision time–put pen to paper and live the next year in the shadows while someone else represented my work, or jump ship. Despite several attempts to ignore Her, the Sirens dull cries had intensified into unavoidable shrieks and I was compelled to pull back from the seemingly propitious opportunity that was unfolding before me. The next day, I felt like a high speed train that had just reached full throttle and then slammed to an abrupt halt, but then I realized it was just the bottle of peach Saké from the night before.  This is Sophia Monroe looking concerned.


     After locking myself in my apartment for days on end with Thai food and re-runs of the 90ʼs alien show “Roswell” as a means of coping, I awoke one morning with alive with purpose. I realized the train hadnʼt stopped at all, but saw that it was heading toward a Wile E. Coyote cliff drop and like an intelligent and well informed train from some futuristic cult film, had simply slowed to change its course. This was by no means the end, it was the beginning.


     I have always had this vision of success and somewhere along the way I found myself willing to settle for a diluted version of it. Thatʼs what the Siren was telling me, it wasnʼt a warning she was screaming, but roar of declaration and avowal. A demand for attention and remembrance. A rallying call. Selling out in the music industry has nothing to do with writing mainstream music or fitting into the “Pop” genre, it has to do with losing your voice and your authenticity. It has to do with sacrificing your big dreams for a ring from a crackerjack box just because it fits your hand. Now, itʼs time to wipe the red chili sauce from my chin, put on pants–literally, not metaphorically–and mount the dragon. Itʼs time to explore how I define myself with what I do and what I want to broadcast to the world. Itʼs time to use my voice, not just to talk but to say something. Not just to sing but to scream. Itʼs time for courage, valor and pussy power. Itʼs time to don the Gucciʼs.

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