It is remarkable to captivate a room with your presence alone. We go to gigs and watch our favourite artists perform, but it’s only when the music is stripped back, just the artist and an instrument, that we truly see their art. I was privileged to see Lucy McWilliams perform an intimate set at Camden Recording Studios in Dublin. It was unlike anything I’d ever experienced. There was no explosive crowd, no stage lights, just a small room where we sat quietly on chairs surrounding a piano and a microphone. It felt comfortably quiet, nothing like the usual chaos of a gig. There’s something powerful about watching an artist in such a vulnerable state. Despite the small crowd, I imagined how exposed Lucy must have felt. She had no band, just her and the piano. Lucy sat at the piano with her notebook in hand, playing a mix of unreleased music and songs we already knew. The moment she began, a whirlwind of emotion hit me. It was beautiful, not because it was perfect, but because it felt so deeply human. The way her hands moved, the way she poured herself into the piano. It was incredibly personal and heartfelt. What stuck with me was when Lucy spoke about contemplating what makes something beautiful. She confessed that the song she’d just written didn’t meet that standard, and she had tried to capture that struggle within the lyrics. Lucy knew she had to play it anyway because performing it would challenge that doubt. The song moved me deeply, and at that moment, I realised how harshly we judge ourselves, endlessly critiquing every detail. When, in reality, there is beauty in imperfection. We often put artists on a pedestal. We forget they are just like us, that they have feelings, doubts, and struggles. Intimate gigs like this allow us to connect with the person behind the music. Lucy McWilliams is one of the kindest, most talented people I’ve had the pleasure of meeting. Written by Sophie Lee.

Before anything else, before the blog, the podcast, or even the gigs, music was the only thing that made me feel alive. It still is. This post isn’t about one band or album. It’s about why music matters when everything else feels empty. There are times when life feels like it’s moving in straight lines, no highs, no lows. Just a quiet, numbing sameness. You might remember the version of yourself that used to yearn, the version of yourself who felt everything with an aching intensity. “It’s getting bad again,” you might say. The emptiness you try so hard to suppress always finds its way back to the surface. You begin to question why nothing ever feels like it’s enough. Depression isn’t linear. You can have a life full of love and laughter, but still struggle to get out of bed in the morning. You might even convince yourself that this emotional weight is normal, that feeling inadequate is a part of growing up, until you’re reaching for the pills again. Is it better to feel everything, to feel as if the life is being sucked out of your bones or to feel nothing at all, to be fine, flat and regulated?. I still don’t have an answer. I do know this, life must mean something. It must be for something. Music means something, something real. It offers comfort in ways another person sometimes can’t. A song can speak for you when you don’t have the words. I’ve lost count of how many nights I’ve fallen asleep with headphones in, letting some stranger’s voice carry what I couldn’t say out loud. When you hear lyrics, it helps to remember someone wrote them. Someone lived through the experience they wrote about. They survived the pain and the numbness. The darkness didn't swallow them whole. Music brings people together. It reminds us that we’re never alone in how we feel. It creates space for understanding, even between strangers. I believe we can help heal each other by connecting through this. Find something you love, something that you can hold onto. It may not fix everything, but sometimes it’s enough to keep you going. Written by Sophie Lee.