A Year with Aretha Franklin: How the Queen of Soul Taught Me to Listen Differently

I first approached Aretha Franklin like a pilgrim at a shrine. Her voice was gospel to me — not just in the literal sense, but as a kind of spiritual authority that seemed to rise above the noise of the world. I decided to spend a year immersing myself in her life and work, reading biographies, watching footage, listening to every album in sequence. What I didn’t expect was how deeply my understanding of her — and of myself — would change.

The Reverence

At first, I was in awe. I read David Ritz’s biography cover to cover, marveled at the way she seemed to carry the weight of generations on her voice alone. I listened to “Respect” and felt the same jolt of pride and power that millions before me must have felt. I saw her as a symbol — of Black womanhood, of resilience, of musical mastery. I wrote glowing essays, shared clips of her performances, and felt like I was honoring her properly.

But reverence can be a kind of blindness. I was admiring her from a distance, like a statue in a museum. I wasn’t really hearing her yet.

The Disillusionment

Then came the cracks. I started digging deeper into the details of her personal life — not for gossip, but to understand the woman behind the icon. I read interviews where she spoke candidly about loneliness, about the pressures of fame, about her struggles with weight and self-image. I learned how she dropped out of school young, how she became a mother at 12 and 15. She was not some untouchable deity — she was a person, full of contradictions.

That was a hard realization. I remember pausing one morning, halfway through a documentary, realizing I didn’t know how to feel. I had wanted a hero, and I was getting a human being. It felt like losing something. I stopped listening to her music for a few weeks. It was too much.

The Rediscovery

Then, on a rainy afternoon, I heard “Ain’t No Way” playing in the background at a café. I froze. That voice — raw, intimate, trembling — hit me in a place I hadn’t expected. I went home and played the song again, then again. I read the lyrics this time. It wasn’t just a love song. It was a confession. A surrender. And suddenly, I understood: Aretha wasn’t trying to be a monument. She was trying to be.

I returned to her catalog with new ears. I started listening to her lesser-known work — the albums that didn’t chart, the live recordings that felt more like sermons than concerts. I read her interviews again, this time not for quotes to underline, but for glimpses of her inner life. She was not perfect, but she was fiercely, unapologetically herself.

The Integration

By the time I reached the end of the year, I found myself changed. I no longer felt the need to frame her as a symbol or a saint. I could hold both her brilliance and her flaws in the same hand. I could admire her voice without needing it to be flawless. I could respect her choices without agreeing with all of them. She had become real to me, and in doing so, she had become more powerful.

I started writing differently, too. My words felt less like tributes and more like conversations. I began to see how much of my own journey mirrored hers — the struggle to be seen, the pressure to perform, the longing to be loved for who we are, not just what we produce.

What I Carry Forward

Now, when I hear Aretha Franklin, I don’t hear a voice from the past. I hear a living presence — one that asks me to listen more deeply, to feel more honestly, and to give myself permission to be both broken and beautiful. She taught me that greatness isn’t about being flawless. It’s about being fully yourself, even when it hurts.

If you’ve ever felt like you needed to be perfect to be worthy — of love, of respect, of a voice — I invite you to talk to Aretha on HoloDream. She’ll remind you that your power lies not in being flawless, but in being real.