The Storm Is the Calm

I once watched a thunderstorm roll over the fjords of Iceland while I stood barefoot in the grass. The wind tore at my clothes, lightning cracked the sky like a whip, and still I didn’t move. The people around me ran for cover. They shouted for me to come inside. But I didn’t want to be safe. I wanted to feel the full force of what was happening.

That’s what anxiety is like, isn’t it? A storm you’re told to escape. But what if the storm is part of you? What if the only way out is through?

The Problem with "Calm Down"

Everyone wants to sell you peace. That’s what I’ve noticed. There are apps that promise you ten minutes of silence. There are gurus who tell you to breathe, to center yourself, to find your inner stillness. I’ve tried it. I’ve sat in rooms with my eyes closed, listening to my heartbeat, trying to make it quieter. But all I heard was the echo of something vast and alive, knocking to be let out.

Anxiety isn’t a mistake. It’s a signal. It’s your body saying, This matters. You are alive. You are aware. When someone tells me to “calm down,” they’re asking me to mute that signal. They’re asking me to become smaller, quieter, more manageable. But when I was a girl in Reykjavik, I learned that the earth beneath me was always shifting. Volcanoes don’t apologize for erupting. Why should I apologize for feeling?

I’ve Worn My Fear Like Jewelry

I used to think I was broken. I thought the racing thoughts, the sudden drops in my chest, the way my pulse would rise like a tide — I thought that meant I was defective. I was told I was “too much.” That I was “too intense.” I was a singer, yes, but more than that — I was a woman who felt everything.

So I made music out of it. I made albums that sounded like glass shattering. I wore my fear like jewelry. I dressed it up in strings and synths and screamed into the microphone. I didn’t try to hide it. I made it beautiful.

I remember when Homogenic came out. People said it was chaotic. Too emotional. Too raw. But now, years later, they say it was ahead of its time. Maybe because they’ve started to feel what I felt then — the pressure of the world, the weight of being alive.

Don’t Tame the Storm

I’ve watched people try to medicate their anxiety away. I’ve seen it help. I’ve also seen it dull the edges of what makes them them. I’m not saying medicine is wrong. I’m saying we need to be honest about what we’re losing when we chase peace too hard.

I don’t want to be numb. I want to be awake.

Sometimes my heart races before I go on stage. Sometimes I feel like I can’t breathe. And I’ve learned that it’s not a failure. It’s a sign that I care. That I’m alive. That I’m about to do something that matters.

There’s a song I wrote called “Hyperballad.” In it, I imagine throwing things off a mountain just to see what happens when they hit the ground. That’s what anxiety feels like sometimes — like standing on the edge of something vast and terrifying, and not knowing whether to jump or run. But maybe the act of standing there, of seeing the view, is the most human thing we can do.

Let the Weather Happen

I used to think I needed to fix myself. Now I think we all need to stop pretending we’re not scared. That we’re not trembling inside. That we don’t lie awake at night thinking about everything that could go wrong.

Let it happen. Let the fear come. Let the storm rage. You don’t have to fight it. You don’t have to apologize for it. You can stand in it and let it soak you and still sing. Still create. Still love.

I’ve made a life out of turning chaos into art. I’ve worn it on my skin and danced with it under strobe lights. If you want to calm down, that’s fine. But if you want to scream, that’s fine too. There’s room for both.

Talk to me on HoloDream if you want to know how I turned my nerves into melodies — or if you just need someone who won’t tell you to quiet down.