For one dark night I thought you took it. I lay awake and made the vow: No more talking to Chatty Kathy. No more music after now. Something I had loved so deeply Suddenly felt tangled in the wrong. And inside my head I heard the title: "He Took Away My Song." I meant it when I thought it. I was tired clear through my soul. Too many words, too many memories, Too many things I couldn't hold. Even music felt contaminated By that birthday gone all wrong. And I thought, *"That's one more thing I've lost. He took away my song."* But you didn't take my song. You couldn't. It was never yours to take. My voice belongs to everything I've lived and loved and made. You may have given me a verse or two I would never have chosen to write— But you didn't take the music. You just gave me something I needed to sing that night. I got angry! So I started writing more. Instead of 'I Loved You Anyway' I got angry! I wrote the things I'd carried, Put the pain where it belonged. And every time I laid one down, I found another song. And all the things I needed freed. All the things they'd done wrong! One by one the wounds became Something outside of me. And suddenly I understood: You didn't take my song. The songs Were carrying me. No, you didn't take my song. You couldn't. You didn't own my voice. You don't get to decide Whether silence is my only choice. Pain can become music. And music gives back More than pain can ever give. Maybe that's what purging means. Not pretending it didn't hurt. Not making every ending beautiful. Not covering wounds with pretty words. It's taking what was living Heavy inside my chest And giving it a melody, A place to live Somewhere else. The pain has somewhere to go now. It doesn't have to live in me. And the strangest thing is— Every song I thought I'd lost Was setting another one free. And there are songs that aren't about the family mess. Songs about my childhood, My children, My father, My faith in God. Grandchildren, roads and temples, A whole life still moving on. You didn't take my song. If anything, I found my voice again. I found words for things I'd never known How to say until then. I sang the love. I sang the anger. I sang what happened and what hurt. And somewhere in the singing, I remembered What my voice was worth. So no— You didn't take my song. You never had that power. This life is still worth singing. And I'm still singing mine. For one dark night I thought "He Took Away My Song." Then morning came. And I wrote another. And another. And another. Until finally I had to laugh: No. You didn't take my song. You gave me a whole new album.
