When Soul Leads: What a Folk Collaboration Taught Me About Music, Healing, and Why I Do This Work

“Music is not the background to our healing—it’s the language of it. Every note a remembering. Every silence, a space to begin again.” — Mary Coughlin

I didn’t expect to cry while watching a group of musicians play.

But there it was—an unexpected ache in my chest, a deep breath held too long, and then… release. Something about the way Rhiannon Giddens, Maeve Gilchrist, and their fellow musicians leaned into each other, note by note, chord by chord, made me feel like I was watching a sacred ceremony unfold. Not just a performance—an invocation. An act of becoming.

And in that moment, I thought:
This is it. This is trauma-informed care.
Not in scrubs. Not in charts or protocols. But in presence. In attunement. In the deep trust that when we bring our whole selves into the room—our wounds, our wisdom, our histories, and our hope—healing happens.

This wasn’t a metaphor. It was a mirror.

I’ve spent years working in trauma-informed developmental care—inviting clinicians to reimagine how we care for babies, families, and ourselves. But the work has always been bigger than that. It’s about showing up with soul. Leading with presence. Creating systems where people feel safe enough to exhale and bold enough to be seen.

That’s what I witnessed in that musical circle. Each musician brought their own thread, and together they wove something transcendent. Not despite their differences—but because of them. No one was diminished. Everyone was amplified.

This is the synchronicity that struck me so deeply:
Music, when held with reverence, becomes medicine.
So does care. So does leadership.

I know this not just as a clinician, educator, or activist—but as a singer-songwriter. When I recorded my album Little Lies, I wasn’t just crafting songs—I was untangling truths. Each lyric was a reckoning. Each melody a release. I didn’t know then that I was giving voice to the very principles I now teach: safety, expression, vulnerability, courage, connection.

Trauma-informed care, at its core, is a song.
It’s a rhythm of relationship.
A harmony of healing.
A brave improvisation that says: you matter. you’re safe. you belong.

So yes—watching that folk collaboration reminded me why I do this work. It reminded me that science and soul were never meant to be separate. That music, like care, is most powerful when it’s rooted in presence. And that healing is not just possible—it’s inevitable, when we choose to show up together.

So here’s my invitation:

Where are you co-creating healing?
What music are you making with your life, your voice, your work?
What would it mean to lean in—to listen more deeply, to trust the silence, to harmonize with what’s true?

You don’t need a stage to be a musician.
You don’t need a hospital to be a healer.

You just need to show up—with heart.
And let soul lead.

With love and music,
Mary

P.S.: If there’s a song, a poem, or a piece of art that’s been living quietly in your heart—this might be the week to let it rise. Not because it has to be perfect, but because it wants to be heard. The world needs more of our honest, unpolished beauty. Yours included. 💫