Grief can make you lash out in unexpected directions, even at your favorite musician. Here’s why I couldn’t listen to Tori Amos for almost a year and what finally brought me back.
When I got my first job at age fifteen, I spent all my money on two things: Doc Martens and Tori Amos CDs. I’d be so into singing her songs that I’d often miss my exit on the interstate on the frequent weekend drives home from college. My all-time favorite album, Little Earthquakes, is one of hers. I even dyed my hair a shade of red around age 16 in part because of Tori’s vibrant locks.
Unsure of who to take with me to my first concert of hers, I finally decided to go by myself — something I’d never done but would do many times over the years following. I’ve seen her at 43 performances spanning 2 countries and 11 states — numbers that sound wild for anyone outside of her fans who understand these stats pale in comparison to those who got a jump start on her concerts back in the early 90s. Back when I didn’t have a driver’s license and would have never thought about crossing state lines for a concert. But in February 2018, I couldn’t listen to her music anymore. This might sound random but for me, it was huge.
Four months before and what would end up being less than two months before my mom’s unexpected death, I spent the afternoon of my mom’s birthday seeing Tori perform for AOL’s Build series. The next month, when Tori returned for a pair of shows at the Beacon Theatre, I took off to spend time by the venue catching up with my friends, hoping to catch Tori pre-show at the stage door. One of the days, my mom and I were supposed to do lunch and go shopping, but I cancelled to spend a second day in NYC. Even though I did again meet Tori that day, I selfishly chose to cancel on time with my mom for something that wasn’t a guarantee. “It’s okay,” I remember her saying through a forced smile. “We can always do it another day.” Another day never came.
In December, I met up with friends in California to go to Tori’s three Los Angeles shows which would end her tour. It was my first trip away since the birth of our son and, even though it was hard to be away, I was so excited to catch up with them and go sightseeing. That year, Tori’s own mom suffered from a stroke. I remember expressing my sympathy as it left her unable to speak, with me at the time reflecting on how I couldn’t imagine ever losing a parent.
The weekend after I returned home, I spent Saturday with my mom and son over at my parent’s house — catching up, randomly watching The Prince and Me, my son still shy of taking his first steps and enjoying her ham and cheese pie.
My Live photos from the day still have her voice in the background. I left early because of the snow. We both paused and took photos of the fresh snow. Living in New Jersey, we weren’t strangers to snowfall, but it felt important to capture that moment. Now I know why.
Every little moment is still so important but at that point, I was so angry. At realizing how many final moments I gave away that could have been time with her. At myself for being so selfish. For not choosing her. She was always there — whether driving at a crazy hour to go to battle against an angry college math professor or picking me up only a few years ago when I had to vacate my apartment over safety concerns. I couldn’t think of a time over the years she hadn’t done everything she could to choose me. I should have known to choose her. Somehow subconsciously I should have known to cancel those plans.
I spent a lot of time — blaming myself for missed moments I thought I should have known to embrace and redirecting my anger at my mom’s death at any direction I could identify. Tori clearly had no direct connection to what happened. To my choices. If anything, her music has been cathartic for me and exposed me to some of the most unique and authentic people I’ve met over the years. And her absence from my rotation was not something I was even conscious of until late 2018 when I stopped to realize. When I turned on her songs, my stomach would end up in knots or I would tear up. Not because of the music itself (though it often can do the latter as well) but because of the time missed with my mom. I just couldn’t do it.
Not quite two years after her death I found myself preparing for another big change — the birth of our second child. This time I’d be going through childbirth without my mom. Knowing our daughter would never meet her was so hard for me. I’d intended to prepare the perfect playlist to listen to while in labor, but forgot to do so until we hurried to the hospital.
We’d discussed doing a playlist of all female rockers. Tori was naturally one of the first to come to mind. Sitting in the passenger seat, I thought about those days I could have spent with my mom. I often look at my mom’s social media. I’d recently pulled up her Facebook account and noticed she’d reshared the photo of Tori and I from October. If she didn’t hold a grudge for my choice, why couldn’t I forgive myself too? That recognition was somehow all I needed. I added Tori to the Spotify playlist without hesitation. For the strong woman she is, for the strong woman my mom was and the strong woman I know our little girl will someday become.
Since my daughter’s birth, Tori has resumed her place back in rotation and I’ve learned to let those moments I’d worried about so long ago go. Because mom would have wanted me to forgive myself. Because I know the truth is that she herself did almost immediately. Some days in our little girl’s smile, I see hers and smile.
You will not ever be forgotten by me
In the procession of the mighty stars
Your name is sung and tattooed now on my heart
Here I will carry, carry, carry you
– Tori Amos, “Carry”
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