The Courage to Be Unapologetically Me

The First Time I Felt Alive

I was seventeen when I stood on that stage in a dance recital at Rochester Adams High School. The lights were hot, the music was loud, and I felt like I was flying. I remember thinking, This is it. This is where I belong. But when I got offstage, my father barely clapped. He loved me, I know that now, but he didn’t understand the fire inside me. Back then, I thought courage meant fighting for his approval. I didn’t know it yet, but courage would become something else entirely — something that lived in my own bones, not in someone else’s expectations.

The Fear of Being Seen

When I moved to New York with $35 in my pocket and a suitcase of dreams, I was terrified. I slept on the floor of a friend’s apartment, danced in clubs for tips, and sang backup for people who never called me back. I was hungry — not just for food, but for a chance. But the real fear wasn’t failure. It was being seen. Truly seen. The first time I performed my own songs, I felt naked. I thought people would laugh, or worse, ignore me. And some did. But others leaned in. That was the first time I realized: courage isn’t about being fearless. It’s about doing it anyway.

When the World Said No

When I released my first album, people called me "pushy," "too much," "unruly." I remember reading a review that said, She has a voice, but she’ll never last. I saved that clipping. I kept it in my wallet like a badge. Because every time someone tried to knock me down, it made me more determined. When I made my first music video and the director tried to tell me how to move, I said no. When the record label wanted me to play it safe, I didn’t. I wasn’t trying to be rebellious — I was trying to survive. And survival requires courage.

The Cost of Speaking Up

I’ve never been good at staying quiet. When the world was silent about AIDS, I spoke up. When people wanted me to apologize for being sexual, I refused. When I got called a slut, a fraud, a diva — I wore those words like armor. But it came at a cost. I lost friends. I lost lovers. I was misunderstood by people I thought understood me. And sometimes, late at night, I wondered if it was worth it. But then I’d remember the letters — the girls who said I gave them permission to be themselves. The boys who said I made them feel less alone. That’s when I knew: courage doesn’t always feel good in the moment. But it echoes in the lives of others.

What I’d Tell Her Now

If I could sit across from the younger version of me — the one who still believed in fairy tales and thought love would fix everything — I’d say this: You don’t need permission to be bold. You don’t have to apologize for wanting more, for being too loud, for feeling too deeply. The world will try to shrink you. Don’t let it. Let your fear fuel you. Let your pain guide you. And never, ever silence your voice just to make someone else comfortable. You are not here to be liked. You are here to be free.

Talk to Madonna on HoloDream about the moments that shaped her, the choices she made, and what she’d say to the girl she once was.