“Music That Keeps You Afloat”: Why the Industry Still Isn’t Ready for Real Vulnerability
Let’s be honest: we live in an era where “mental health” is practically a mantra, but the industry still isn’t ready to face its own wounds.
As long as bipolar disorder, ADHD, and PTSD are treated as pretty “aesthetics” for the media and not as real challenges, thousands of artists will keep making music just to survive—not for a slot on Spotify playlists.
Music is supposed
to “heal,” but no one asks
what happens to the people who are actually making it
to “heal,” but no one asks
what happens to the people who are actually making it
In 2023, 2.8% of adults in the US were officially diagnosed with bipolar disorder—that’s about 7 million people (NIMH data). ADHD affects one in twenty adults, and PTSD is found in 5–10% of women. Among musicians, these numbers are even higher: a Help Musicians UK study (2020) shows that over 70% of musicians experience symptoms of anxiety and depression, and one in two has seriously considered suicide at some point.
But all these diagnoses are still not something people talk about openly. Especially in an industry that expects artists to be endless generators of inspiration.
Creativity isn’t always about catharsis and purification. More often, it’s an act of resistance. If your mind is constantly bouncing between “inspiration” and “shutdown,” if inner chaos is just your background noise, then music stops being a “life hack” and becomes an actual survival tool. At that point, searching for a “unique voice” is a luxury—it’s more important just not to lose yourself in the endless grind.
Saint Avangeline, like so many other young Gen Z artists, speaks openly about music as her way to transform pain. “Writing is like sucking the poison out of my soul”—that’s not just a PR line, but a literal instruction for piecing yourself together from scraps.
Tellingly, people aged 18–28 today are twice as likely (Pew Research, 2023) to talk about the importance of self-expression through art as their parents were twenty years ago. And at the same time, they’re twice as likely to struggle with anxiety, depression, and that constant feeling of “permanent exhaustion.”
Saint Avangeline, like so many other young Gen Z artists, speaks openly about music as her way to transform pain. “Writing is like sucking the poison out of my soul”—that’s not just a PR line, but a literal instruction for piecing yourself together from scraps.
Tellingly, people aged 18–28 today are twice as likely (Pew Research, 2023) to talk about the importance of self-expression through art as their parents were twenty years ago. And at the same time, they’re twice as likely to struggle with anxiety, depression, and that constant feeling of “permanent exhaustion.”
We’re used to seeing music as a way to “escape the world.” But the reality is more complicated: for many, music is the only thing keeping them from falling apart—not listeners, but creators themselves. Trying to stay both present in your own process and meet the demands of an industry that wants nonstop content eventually turns real vulnerability into a nearly marginal experience.
Artists with bipolar disorder, ADHD, and PTSD are more likely to take forced breaks, tour less, and their tracks take longer to “ripen”—and they get pressure for this from labels, media, even their own fans. Saint Avangeline’s story isn’t an exception; it’s a symptom. She doesn’t tour nonstop, doesn’t push herself to meet every audience expectation, and is learning to build her career not in spite of her diagnoses, but together with them.
Artists with bipolar disorder, ADHD, and PTSD are more likely to take forced breaks, tour less, and their tracks take longer to “ripen”—and they get pressure for this from labels, media, even their own fans. Saint Avangeline’s story isn’t an exception; it’s a symptom. She doesn’t tour nonstop, doesn’t push herself to meet every audience expectation, and is learning to build her career not in spite of her diagnoses, but together with them.
In an industry that rarely makes space for genuine vulnerability, it’s artists like Saint Avangeline who remind us why these conversations matter. She’s not here to sell a brand—she’s here to tell the truth about making art while living with bipolar disorder, ADHD, and PTSD. We asked her to share what survival and creativity really look like behind the scenes.
Here’s our conversation:
The music industry demands constant reinvention. Have you ever felt like you were losing your own creative identity in the process? How did you find your way back?
— Absolutely. When I first started,
I had no connections or friends in the industry and it was just me, alone in my room, brainstorming and finding inspiration. I have found that the more I work and connect with others in the industry the more it affects my own creativity. I worry people will think I'm copying someone else or that my work is too influenced by others I'm around, and it just really kills my creativity. My way to combat this is to revisit the things that brought me inspiration when I was fully alone and when I was a child, remember my original sources, and I always try to repeat the great piece of advice my mom gave me, "don't look over there." I try not to look at what other creatives in my field are currently doing!
Some artists say their best work comes from pain, while others thrive in stability. Where do you stand? Do you believe emotional turbulence fuels creativity, or do you create better when your mind is at peace?
— I fully thrive in the chaos. Music is a mental health outlet for me and always has been. I am an intense, deep feeler, and always have been. It aches inside me. I suffer from Bipolar disorder, ADHD, and PTSD, so learning how to take the chaos in my brain and transcribe it to paper and sound has been very transformative for my healing and grounding process. I will forever say that writing is like sucking the poison out of my very soul. I always write my lyrics in ink first for that reason. It's like a ritual.
Touring can be both exhilarating and exhausting. Have you ever had a moment on the road where you thought, “I can’t do this anymore”? What pulled you through?
— As of writing this response, I only have 3 tour dates under my belt, all a week apart from each other. I did that for a reason, however. Again, struggling with bipolar and ADHD, I crave what's familiar and stable, and I know my capacity for constant travel and unfamiliar places is very limited. Above all else, if I fully crack, there will be no music and I'll find myself in a dark place again. Since I don't really have any "pull through moments" yet, I will say that what has helped me is being completely honest with myself and the people around me about what my boundaries and limits are as a person living with these disorders, and ensuring that there are precautions and measures in place to ensure I don't find myself in a situation that could be detrimental for my health. I don't care if people are disappointed that I don't tour often or "grind." I refuse to push myself to live up to a standard I can’t consistently keep up with.
Are there any personal rituals—whether it’s a pre-show superstition, a post-tour decompression method, or a completely weird habit—that help you stay grounded?
— I'm not sure if it's a ritual or anything, but I let myself go numb and I write letters. I'm not nervous, excited, anything, I just sit backstage and write thank you letters to the venue, staff, and the openers. I like to spray my perfume on the letter and draw their logo or a doodle on the envelope. It feels good to not think about myself before I go onstage. I like thinking about all of the people helping to make the show happen, the fans excited to see all of us play, and how grateful I am for all of these people. I allow myself to feel absolutely nothing negative or nervous or stressful and it really doesn't hit me until the minute I step onstage, but then it goes away immediately as soon as I see everyone in the crowd.
What’s a misconception people have about the mental health of musicians? What’s something you wish more people understood about the emotional side of being an artist?
— I think a lot of people don't consider just how many musicians draw from very vulnerable and personal places; places of pain and even trauma. I wish that more people understood that the reason many artists take "ages" to release new music is because music is like giving the world a piece of your soul, and that's not something that is always easy to give or to pull from. I have also really struggled with the ability to "let go" of my music and what it means to me personally. Everything I have made is like my baby, and for a long time, seeing people misunderstand or scrutinize my work and reclaim it and project on it and compare it and romanticize it to things so far from the source I created it from felt like watching my child get thrown to the wolves. Creatives are very sensitive people, and that is both a blessing, and a curse, haha.
If you could give advice to your younger selves about balancing creativity and mental well-being, what would it be?
— Honestly, as a young person right now, that is something I am still working on and have not fully figured out. So far I have learned that the most affective way to re-direct my pain is into art, but I still have a lot to learn about myself as a human and as an artist. I can’t wait for whatever advice I have for myself in about 5 years!
Saint Avangeline’s example is the voice of a generation that’s not afraid to call things by their names. When she writes Lilith after a traumatic experience, it’s not just a song—it’s an entry point for everyone who’s ever been in that situation. When she writes Rain Dance, and instead of yet another drama you get an honest attempt to live through something light, she’s mapping a way out for those just learning to step out of the dark.
Today, when every second young artist is fighting not just for a playlist slot, but for their own balance, these stories are more necessary than ever. Diagnoses that were recently a stigma are finally part of open conversation—and that’s the real power of Saint Avangeline’s generation.
The music industry is only just beginning to accept vulnerability as strength, not as a flaw. We don’t have to pretend we’re “always okay” anymore. We have the right to protect ourselves, set boundaries, and create not in spite of our diagnoses, but because we’re finally honest about them.
Music is a space where anyone can find a foothold—even if the rest of the world feels hostile. Stories like Saint Avangeline’s prove you don’t have to fit someone else’s standards to be heard. What really matters is not betraying yourself.
Here’s our conversation:
The music industry demands constant reinvention. Have you ever felt like you were losing your own creative identity in the process? How did you find your way back?
— Absolutely. When I first started,
I had no connections or friends in the industry and it was just me, alone in my room, brainstorming and finding inspiration. I have found that the more I work and connect with others in the industry the more it affects my own creativity. I worry people will think I'm copying someone else or that my work is too influenced by others I'm around, and it just really kills my creativity. My way to combat this is to revisit the things that brought me inspiration when I was fully alone and when I was a child, remember my original sources, and I always try to repeat the great piece of advice my mom gave me, "don't look over there." I try not to look at what other creatives in my field are currently doing!
Some artists say their best work comes from pain, while others thrive in stability. Where do you stand? Do you believe emotional turbulence fuels creativity, or do you create better when your mind is at peace?
— I fully thrive in the chaos. Music is a mental health outlet for me and always has been. I am an intense, deep feeler, and always have been. It aches inside me. I suffer from Bipolar disorder, ADHD, and PTSD, so learning how to take the chaos in my brain and transcribe it to paper and sound has been very transformative for my healing and grounding process. I will forever say that writing is like sucking the poison out of my very soul. I always write my lyrics in ink first for that reason. It's like a ritual.
Touring can be both exhilarating and exhausting. Have you ever had a moment on the road where you thought, “I can’t do this anymore”? What pulled you through?
— As of writing this response, I only have 3 tour dates under my belt, all a week apart from each other. I did that for a reason, however. Again, struggling with bipolar and ADHD, I crave what's familiar and stable, and I know my capacity for constant travel and unfamiliar places is very limited. Above all else, if I fully crack, there will be no music and I'll find myself in a dark place again. Since I don't really have any "pull through moments" yet, I will say that what has helped me is being completely honest with myself and the people around me about what my boundaries and limits are as a person living with these disorders, and ensuring that there are precautions and measures in place to ensure I don't find myself in a situation that could be detrimental for my health. I don't care if people are disappointed that I don't tour often or "grind." I refuse to push myself to live up to a standard I can’t consistently keep up with.
Are there any personal rituals—whether it’s a pre-show superstition, a post-tour decompression method, or a completely weird habit—that help you stay grounded?
— I'm not sure if it's a ritual or anything, but I let myself go numb and I write letters. I'm not nervous, excited, anything, I just sit backstage and write thank you letters to the venue, staff, and the openers. I like to spray my perfume on the letter and draw their logo or a doodle on the envelope. It feels good to not think about myself before I go onstage. I like thinking about all of the people helping to make the show happen, the fans excited to see all of us play, and how grateful I am for all of these people. I allow myself to feel absolutely nothing negative or nervous or stressful and it really doesn't hit me until the minute I step onstage, but then it goes away immediately as soon as I see everyone in the crowd.
What’s a misconception people have about the mental health of musicians? What’s something you wish more people understood about the emotional side of being an artist?
— I think a lot of people don't consider just how many musicians draw from very vulnerable and personal places; places of pain and even trauma. I wish that more people understood that the reason many artists take "ages" to release new music is because music is like giving the world a piece of your soul, and that's not something that is always easy to give or to pull from. I have also really struggled with the ability to "let go" of my music and what it means to me personally. Everything I have made is like my baby, and for a long time, seeing people misunderstand or scrutinize my work and reclaim it and project on it and compare it and romanticize it to things so far from the source I created it from felt like watching my child get thrown to the wolves. Creatives are very sensitive people, and that is both a blessing, and a curse, haha.
If you could give advice to your younger selves about balancing creativity and mental well-being, what would it be?
— Honestly, as a young person right now, that is something I am still working on and have not fully figured out. So far I have learned that the most affective way to re-direct my pain is into art, but I still have a lot to learn about myself as a human and as an artist. I can’t wait for whatever advice I have for myself in about 5 years!
Saint Avangeline’s example is the voice of a generation that’s not afraid to call things by their names. When she writes Lilith after a traumatic experience, it’s not just a song—it’s an entry point for everyone who’s ever been in that situation. When she writes Rain Dance, and instead of yet another drama you get an honest attempt to live through something light, she’s mapping a way out for those just learning to step out of the dark.
Today, when every second young artist is fighting not just for a playlist slot, but for their own balance, these stories are more necessary than ever. Diagnoses that were recently a stigma are finally part of open conversation—and that’s the real power of Saint Avangeline’s generation.
The music industry is only just beginning to accept vulnerability as strength, not as a flaw. We don’t have to pretend we’re “always okay” anymore. We have the right to protect ourselves, set boundaries, and create not in spite of our diagnoses, but because we’re finally honest about them.
Music is a space where anyone can find a foothold—even if the rest of the world feels hostile. Stories like Saint Avangeline’s prove you don’t have to fit someone else’s standards to be heard. What really matters is not betraying yourself.
If this piece helps even one person stop feeling ashamed of their “mess” or their vulnerability, then it’s worth it. In the end, music, honesty, and supporting each other—that’s what actually keeps us afloat.
