Stop asking the industry to let you in
For years, I operated under the assumption that belonging in the music industry required convincing institutions that I deserved it. I believed that the right record, the right review, or the right nomination would finally open the door wide enough for me to walk through without leaving a piece of myself outside.
That assumption, however, proved to be a deeply flawed strategy. It was in 2017 that I began writing songs about racial injustice, channeling the frustrations of the world into country music. As I built the foundation for what would become the album White Trash Revelry, I wondered if there was an audience for a message that felt so distinctly outside the established genre. The country music I grew up with offered little space for such politics; even the concept of “white responsibility” felt like a dismissal of the “white guilt” that had casually defined my lineage.
I knew what I wanted to create, but I had no idea where it was meant to land. That realization spurred me to seek out alternative spaces. I attended the Americana Honors & Awards, an organization I barely understood, and there, I witnessed a cultural defiance embodied by artists like John Prine and Iris DeMent. It was there I realized that maybe there was a home for exactly the kind of music I was making.
Yet, the path to institutional acceptance remained frustratingly narrow. Despite building momentum, subsequent opportunities, including recognition from Rolling Stone, felt like temporary validations rather than lasting acceptance. I found myself repeatedly rejected by the gatekeepers, leaving me to question the very structures that defined success.
This feeling of being perpetually on the outside extended to the broader community. I watched as other queer country artists, whose work had profoundly shaped the community, were similarly overlooked. The institutional infrastructure often offered co-signing without granting the necessary credentials, access, or meaningful support, creating a stark disconnect between the promise of community and the reality of belonging.
The ultimate test of this dynamic came at AmericanaFest in 2023. After declining invitations twice, the organization finally offered me a spot, but I demanded inclusion for additional trans artists. When they agreed to include artists like Jessye DeSilva and She Returns From War, I hoped we were finally widening the door.
But the experience at the festival offered a stark lesson in the gap between recognition and care. Later, during a moment of personal vulnerability, I encountered outright cruelty that exposed the deep fissures within those institutions. The way people reacted—the lack of immediate intervention, the placement of the burden of deciding what should happen next squarely on my shoulders—revealed a deeper failure. I recognized that the association seemed to honor us as symbols without truly seeing us as human beings.
The pursuit of validation became incredibly costly. It taught me that while institutional recognition can provide access, it does not equate to belonging or true care. The emotional and financial cost of chasing external approval can lead to self-erasure.
Instead of continuing to knock on the door of a system that seemed unwilling to reciprocate, I shifted my focus. I began to trust in the noise—the jubilant revelry of making music and creating community—rather than waiting for permission from the giants. I found that true belonging isn’t granted by an institution; it is built in the spaces where people choose to gather, listen, and share their truth.
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