When Grieving Second Graders Became My Greatest Audience and Teachers

Trigger Warning: Death, suicide

For most of my life, I've known that music is a powerful tool that can help people through all sorts of issues. Despite music's complex effects on my life and the many layers to the nature of how it can meld into our core and lighten the emotional toll that life often deals us,

I hadn’t fully understood its power until a cold December morning when my sister texted asking if I'd do a music therapy session with her special education students.

I almost said no. I was rusty, hadn't played for a group in months, and deep in the winter blues. But I guilted myself into going. I'm so glad I did.

I arrived at the school, played some songs for her kids and after I finished my sister mentioned that there was a classroom of second graders that had just lost a classmate of theirs to a murder/suicide and could use some cheering up. This made me incredibly nervous because here I am, barely holding it together myself and I'm going to be able to cheer up these kids who are going through something so unimaginable, especially at that age?

The answer to that question is yes. I walked into the classroom full of children and the vibe was a bit somber as to be expected after what they had all just been through. I handed out some instruments and tried to act normal. I played a few calming tunes, some kids joined in. It was okay.

Then things went from okay to awe-inspiring.

We were at the requests portion of the session and one of the kids asked me if I could play the song "Old Town Road" by Billy Ray Cyrus featuring Lil Nas X. This particular remix of this tune had blown up and was incredibly popular at that time and fortunately I had heard it enough times to recognize what the chord progression was but warned the kids that I did not know any of the lyrics besides the words in the chorus. These kids looked at me with the confidence of seasoned performers and gave me the nod to start playing.

When I tell you that these kids all stood up, danced, maraca'd, tambourined, stomped, cheered, embraced each other in a way no concertgoers I had ever witnessed go about concert-ing had, and recited every lyric and melody flawlessly at the top of their lungs; I need you to understand that I'm not exaggerating. The energy was so palpable that it continues to give me boundless energy every time I think about their unfiltered joy breaking through and overpowering the incomprehensible darkness that engrossed the room just minutes earlier.

In that moment, watching these seven-year-olds transform grief into celebration, time slowed down for me. These children didn't know what was going on in my head that day—my winter blues, my rustiness, my self-doubt; yet they treated me like royalty. All of their sorrow, confusion and mourning couldn't overshadow the kindness, love and welcoming energy they provided me that day. Here I was supposed to be cheering them up (I guess I sort of did, but I think they deserve more of the credit), and they're the ones who gave me the best gifts that any audience could give, reciprocal comfort and a lasting memory.

A few students came up to me as I was packing up and thanked me for the session and I had no words for them besides "No, thank YOU!" One of the kids just flat out told me "My friend died and I really needed that." My heart broke yet soared simultaneously.

Besides that day being one of the most powerful experiences of my life, it taught me all about the power in just showing up for people, even if we don't know what's going on in our own heads or in others' hearts, we can still make beautiful noise together. Those second graders will forever be my greatest audience because they reminded me that healing happens when we meet each other exactly where we are, with kindness and presence.