HONESTLY

Anxiety

My stomach felt uneasy as my nerves tried to get the best of me. When I walked downstairs and into the kitchen, I immediately smelt the eggs, farm-fresh from our chicken coop, my father had been cooking. Any other morning, I would've taken the time to enjoy the eggs over easy with toast and apple butter, but that day was different.

My dad, Phillip, placed the plated breakfast in front of me as I sat on a stool at the kitchen island.

"Eat up before it gets cold," he said with a reassuring smile.

 I focused on the food in front of me, knowing there was no way I would be able to touch a thing. 

"You're over thinking again. What have I told you over and over?" he questioned, slightly tilting his head while he waited for my usual answer.

I took a breath for a second then said, "I am in control of my own destiny. I should embrace my success, not worry about things I can't control."

My father smiled, encouraged I'd been listening to his pep talks over the years, but I didn't have the heart to confide in him. The words I spoke were just words. I wasn't sophisticated enough to fully pull myself together when I knew so much depended on me.

"I'm going to be late," I said, pretending to be in a rush as I stood up and grabbed my guitar case and backpack before heading to the front door.

"Nicky, it's 7:30. You don't need to be there until 9:30. Come back and eat something, please," he said, hoping I would stay a little longer.

"There could be traffic. Love you, I'll let you know how it goes," I said, quickly flashing a reassuring smile his way before heading out the door.

This was not like every other time I recorded songs.

They called me a YouTube sensation, plucked right out of obscurity from my small town in North Carolina, all for posting a few original songs from my living room junior year of high school.  Most didn't really understand me, but with music, I discovered a voice I never knew I had. 

As I stood in the spacious sound booth with producers on the other side of the glass, I still couldn't believe I was twenty-two, living in Nashville,  about to cut my second album.

Walt Matthews, my agent who looked like a young Kenny Rogers,  smiled at me as I tried to hide my lack of confidence by giving a big thumbs up to him and the crew. When the producers actually spoke into the microphone and said, "We are ready, when you are," things got real. The only person I could focus on at that moment was myself, there was no turning back.

I nervously adjusted my bulky headphones so they would be positioned just so on my ears as my sweaty palms left a trace on the outer portion. I lightly brushed my wet hands off on my jean shorts before reaching for my guitar. That sacred instrument never let me down and had been with me way before I had a career in music.

I placed the ragged, sunflower-print strap around my neck, and swept my long, sun-kissed, chestnut hair away from getting tangled up. I positioned my shaky fingers on the chords and immediately became calmer.

This was home to me.

I breathed in through my nose and out through my nose, like I'd been taught in hot yoga, trying to find some form of Zen.

Finally, I was ready.

I began to sing, the words flowed out of my mouth with an intensity as my fingers strummed the chords softly on my guitar. I closed my eyes embracing the ballad in that moment.

The world seemed so small,

In that tiny treehouse,

Waiting for an answer,

Honestly, tell me the truth

After I finished the song, I opened my eyes, realizing my life at that moment would never be the same. This song was different than any other I had written. 

Before I was discovered,  I got in the habit of writing every lyric down in a plain, lined notebook, I had too many to count. The idea books were lined up in a bookcase stored in my bedroom as a sign of encouragement when I would second guess myself or when I felt like I had nothing to say.  As I wrote the first album, I'd select a few of the older notebooks and flip through them, looking for inspiration from the half-written songs that for some reason I'd never completed. I searched for a word or a thought that might spark creativity and excitement and renew my desire to reawaken a once incomplete song.

While creating the second album, I found myself in the weeds again, unable to navigate through the song I was working on. I turned to my old notebooks, like I had done the first time, and searched for something, anything that would help me. I had no luck until one night when I found myself flipping through some of my past journals. 

When I was finished with the album and presented all of my songs to the producers, one song in particular stood out to them. Of course, that song was the one I was most hesitant about. Originally, the lyrics were just words from one of those past journal entries I had found.  My personal feelings written down for no one else to see but me, until that night I decided to pick up my guitar and write a melody.

Instantly, the song was chosen to be the first single. Then, when I didn't think things could get any worse,  the name of the song won the coveted spot of being the title of the album, "HONESTLY."

Once I was in the studio recording the very song I had stayed up at night worrying about, I realized my control was gone. Some would say I was brave to open my heart up for the world to see, others would say I was just plain stupid. I knew otherwise. 

During a weak moment, I let anger and revenge cloud my judgement. 

I'd essentially sat down on the roller coaster, placed the bar in front of me as the ride began to move forward edging up the track with no way off or time to look back. Fear and panic engulfed my body.  I would've been dumb or naïve to think I wasn't going to be asked a million times about the meaning behind the song, or even worse, who the song was about.

As I exited the sound booth, I realized I wasn't mentally prepared to answer any questions about the song, let alone answer them honestly.