Notes of a Shattered Self: How Mindy Gledhill Helped Me Heal

There are voices that entertain, voices that comfort, and then there are voices that awaken something dormant within you. For me, Mindy Gledhill’s voice belongs to the latter. Her music has been a constant companion to me, a mirror reflecting my own journey of self-discovery, resilience, and transformation. Through my seven foster homes, multiple group homes, mental hospital and juvenile detention stays, loss of friends,  joining the church at seventeen, leaving the church at twenty-seven, and then opening up to the terrifying act of truly getting to know myself… despite the lingering fear of being perceived as egotistical… her music stayed with me. It was a lighthouse in the storm, a quiet witness to the chaos and courage it took to uncover who I really was.

When I was lost inside the hollows of chronic pain, identity confusion with sexuality, my borderline personality disorder diagnosis, and a deep ache to be understood, I stumbled into the haunting beauty of her voice like someone stumbling barefoot into a wild meadow… unexpected, but life-changing. She doesn’t sing AT  you… she sings TO and WITH the version of you that you’ve locked away, afraid no one would ever want to meet her. And somehow, her melodies convince you that version is the most beautiful of all. She sings as though she knows the rooms you’ve hidden in, the silence you’ve sat through, the questions you’ve been too afraid to ask aloud.

What struck me early on in listening to Mindy was her vulnerability… not performative, not polished into perfection but raw and courageous. She doesn’t disguise her fragility… she invites you into it. She seems to understand that sadness isn’t a malfunction to be fixed but a well to draw wisdom from. Her 2019 album Rabbit Hole isn’t merely a collection of songs… it’s a confession, a reclamation, a manifesto of a woman deciding she won’t apologize for breaking out of a narrative that tried to silence her. It resonated deeply with me as someone who knows what it feels like to outgrow the space you were told to stay small in.

Sadness, in Mindy’s world, is not an enemy. It’s a room you sit in long enough to learn its language. She doesn’t rush it. She lets it spill. She lets it echo. And in doing so, she offers others permission to do the same. I’ve come to view sadness not as a weakness, but as a sacred part of being alive. It demands stillness, reflection, honesty… and Mindy gave me a soundtrack to that kind of introspection. Her art became my brave space to feel the weight of things without collapsing under it.

Anger, too, finds a nuanced place in her work. Not explosive or violent, but simmering. Focused. Transmuted into boundaries, into saying “no” without guilt, into leaving behind belief systems that once offered comfort but became cages. While she may not scream in her songs, the quiet rebellion in her lyrics speaks volumes. There’s an unmistakable thread of resistance in her story… a refusal to pretend or pacify, especially when doing so would mean abandoning herself. That resonance… a woman choosing truth over tradition, selfhood over silence… is something I return to again and again.

Joy, for Mindy, seems to arise not from perfection, but from deep authenticity. I remember reading a quote she once posted: “Joy is the happiness that doesn’t depend on what happens.” That stopped me in my tracks. It’s the kind of joy I’ve spent my life craving… not one tethered to circumstances, but one that springs up from within, like a wildflower no frost could kill. Her music dances with this kind of joy, the kind that recognizes grief and walks hand-in-hand with it. Listening to her songs feels like sitting beside someone who has cried with you and still believes the world is full of magic.

Her reflections on forgiveness moved me deeply, particularly when she shared an early memory of forgetting a verse during a childhood performance and learning that the world didn’t end… that people forget your mistakes faster than you do. That image lingered in me like a balm. Growing up, mistakes felt like moral failings. They were met with disappointment or distance. Forgiveness didn’t come easily, and I internalized the idea that love could be revoked. Mindy, through both words and music, taught me that forgiveness doesn’t have to be earned through perfection… it can be given freely, even to ourselves. Especially to ourselves.

The kind of love she sings about isn’t performative or bound by pain… it’s expansive, patient, and grounded in wholeness. She challenges the idea that love must hurt to be real. Her art gently nudges me to redefine love in my own life, not as a contract or currency but as presence… being truly seen and seeing others without agenda. That kind of love is rare and revolutionary. It’s not the kind of love you chase. It’s the kind that arrives quietly when you stop trying to prove your worth.

When I ask myself what frightens me the most, the answer is almost always being misunderstood (well, dying in an ocean alone is the biggest… but that’s less likely, statistically). Basically… being deemed “too much” or “not enough.” And I believe Mindy shares some of that fear… because in her leaving the LDS Church, in breaking away from cultural norms and choosing to speak her truth, she risked being misunderstood by an entire community. But she did it anyway. She showed that sometimes the bravest thing we can do is walk away from certainty toward something more real. Something that looks a little lonelier at first, but ultimately becomes more liberating.

Her primary language of emotion is music… hers is a voice that bleeds emotion into every word. I admire that. I envy it, even. I wish I could always be so composed and poetic in my own emotional expression and not only transform that into songs as she does but even express it in conversation. But the truth is, despite being able to write out my thoughts and feelings, given the time… in person my feelings often come out messy… through tears, through silence, through tangled sentences I wish I could take back. Mindy models what it means to express emotions with clarity and care. She’s taught me that even when I don’t have the words, I can still find the truth in a melody.

I think she, like me, finds comfort in emotions like hope and longing… those bittersweet companions that keep us soft and searching. But the discomfort of emotions like rage or apathy? Those are harder. And yet, she leans into them anyway, bravely turning them into art. That courage reminds me that I don’t have to wait until I’m “over it” to speak. The middle of a feeling is a valid place to create from. We don’t need the conclusion to write the chorus. Sometimes the most honest verse is the one still trembling.

Vulnerability, for Mindy, looks like standing on a stage and singing about the things people are too afraid to say. It looks like writing lyrics that peel away the persona and reveal the person underneath. Vulnerability for me takes form in quieter ways… sometimes in admitting I need help, sometimes in staying when I want to run. It’s a shaky voice. A hand held out. A choice to be seen, even when I don’t feel lovable. Sometimes, vulnerability is writing something like this and not deleting it. (Hoping she’d see this and find it beautiful and not creepy …)

Strength, in the context of vulnerability, doesn’t look like control. It looks like surrender. It’s in letting the walls down before you’re certain someone will stay. It’s in telling the truth even when your voice trembles. Mindy embodies that kind of strength. Her life and art have taught me that being honest about our mess doesn’t diminish our power… it reveals it. That kind of strength isn’t about invincibility. It’s about the audacity to stay soft in a world that demands armor.

I’ve learned from her that emotion is meant to move through us, not be stored in locked drawers. Music has become one of my ways to do that. Writing, too, of course. And sometimes, crying in the shower while listening to her songs on repeat (I feel no shame admitting this). These rituals have become ways I learn to live with my feelings instead of fighting them. I don’t ask for help as often as I should, but when I do, I remember that I’m not broken for needing others… I’m human. Messy. Magical. Human.

Saying “no” still makes me anxious. I was raised to please, to accommodate, to apologize for taking up space. But I’m learning, slowly, that “no” can be a sacred yes to myself. That lesson is embedded in Mindy’s life, in the way she chose her own sanity and spirit over the comfort of conformity. And sometimes, I have to remind myself that it’s not selfish to protect my energy. It’s necessary. It’s kind.

Letting go has become a spiritual practice for me. Letting go of needing to be understood by everyone. Letting go of perfectionism. Letting go of the idea that survival must look graceful. And letting go of trying to control others when they choose not to support or be there for me… and just LET THEM make their choices. Mindy’s music gave me the courage to drop the armor. And in that release, I’ve found more of myself. Not a shinier version. A truer one.

There are things I still need to forgive myself for. My impatience. My sensitivity. My need for reassurance. The ways I’ve tried to earn love by shrinking. If I could write myself a letter, I’d say:

Dear self,

You do not have to apologize for the ways you feel deeply.

You do not have to fix your softness to be worthy.

I forgive you for the years you spent trying to become palatable.

You were always enough.

You are still enough.

…

This is what Mindy’s music gave me… a letter I didn’t know I was waiting to read. A feeling I could finally name. A truth I could finally believe.

These days, when I feel overwhelmed, I pause and ask what my body is trying to say. Sometimes the message is “rest.” Sometimes it’s “keep going.” Sometimes it’s “speak up.” Mindy helped me realize that emotions are messages, not enemies. Listening became a form of healing. Pausing became an act of love.

I show myself compassion now by listening… to my body, my instincts, my limits. I show myself love by creating. I show myself kindness by no longer demanding that I be okay all the time. And I show up for myself the way her songs have shown up for me… consistently, tenderly, honestly.

I’ve always been more comfortable giving than receiving. Giving love, energy, apologies. Receiving is harder… it feels exposing. But people like Mindy teach me that receiving is sacred, too. That we are meant to hold and be held. That there is beauty in being open enough to say, “I need,” and brave enough to believe the answer might be “yes.”

Boundaries, once foreign to me, have become a form of devotion. Saying no. Saying “I need space.” Saying “This is what I want.” Vulnerability looks like all of this… the shaky yes, the firm no, the silence that says “I’m not ready yet.” It’s the art of showing up even when you feel unsure.

Mindy Gledhill didn’t save me. But she walked beside me, note by note, until I remembered how to save myself. She is the voice in the background as I reclaim my story. The melody that makes grief bearable. The harmony that helps me believe in joy again.

And for that, I will always be grateful.