CASSANDRA COLEMAN // The Becoming in the Coming of Age: A Softcore Rebellion and Learning to Age With Grace

On Cassandra Coleman’s Debut — Finding Grace, Grief, + Golden Light on Copper Crowns

“96 to 22// My love they put the fear of God in you”– WOOF.

If music = memory, then the flood gates just opened.

An opener to a song unlike I’ve ever heard. Cassandra Coleman. Know her? I didn’t. Not until a BTS video in the studio made its way to my feed. Something about her sultry, brooding voice hooked me in one breath before I even heard what she was saying.

I watched the video first to get the visuals with the song and I still have tears in my eyes as I type this. The goose bumps are just now going back down and under the dermis. Coming Of Age is, plainly put, That Song. No notes. Just tears.

It’s cinematic, not just in how it's brought to life visually, but musically. Lyrically. Sonically. It’s the kind of song that says, “Hey kid, I see you. Let me wrap you in melody and orchestral reverb and wash away every single mean thing that anyone has ever said to you.” It’s the kind of song that I wish I had when I was 18– bright eyed and bushy tailed, dropped in a new city, new culture, new everything. Leaving home for the first time, longingly staring out windows, wishing for circumstances to be different; crying on the phone to my brother because I missed him too much and felt guilty for leaving home. The duality of grief and joy I still carry today, almost fifteen years later.

I went to school that was an eight hour drive away from my toxic Hell of a childhood home. My younger brother stayed behind to continue high school. All the while I made new friends, lived off campus with my best friend since freshman year of high school and people I had never met before. I joined a sorority. I went to parties. I didn't go to class. I flunked my first semester of college. I lost my scholarships. I was a walking screenplay.

My life had always had this air of movie quality to it. Really put the Syn in cinema, if you know what I mean. I didn't do the high school rebel, sneaking out, kissing boys in truck beds at the dunes story line. No no, that wasn’t me. In high school, I got good grades. Joined the clubs. Did three glorious years of yearbook. Graduated with honors. Crushed on boys on the baseball team that we’re too scared to love me. Going to a high school in a small town, you learn to survive when and how you can. Growing up in an abusive household, you also learn to survive when and how you can. These are the scenes I’d fast forward. The haunting still lives in my marrow.

My particular genre of coming of age was much more vanilla-on-the-outside, dark-and-twisty-on-the-inside. On the outside, I tried to be this free spirited (see also: indie sleaze) hippy boho chic with feather earrings, owl necklaces (you know the one. It was 2011. We all had it) and tacky fedoras. Yet on the inside, my inner My Chemical Romance emo pop punk kid was screaming. Raging, even. Begging to be free and heard. My high school bff turned college roommate and I saw Panic At The Disco at the Knitting Factory. RIP. Patrick Stump opened. We danced. We jumped. We screamed. Pretty sure I cried. Looking back, it’d definitely make the final directors cut of that particular season of my life. It was so Perks of Being A Wallflower meets Lady Bird, that it hurt. No wonder those are two of my favorite films.

I was angsty. Honestly, still am. I don’t think that ever really dies, but at the time, I had 18 years of pent up rage, trauma, and rebellion brewing in my blood. So I went a little crazy. Sue me. Are you gonna tell me that there’s a movie out there where the sheltered eldest daughter who finally breaks free after spending her life polishing the pedestal that everyone put her on didn’t fall off from grace? I’ll wait.

It’s a tale as old as time. How very… ~*coming of age*~ of me. Yet, instead of warm heart to hearts and hugs that "it'll be ok”, I was met with disdain. Disappointment. Love so conditional, you’d think it was a contract. And it was– a contract signed in blood I never gave consent to. I was told, to my face might I add, “you’re a failure and I hate you”. I still flinch at the recall. I guess when you’ve been placed so high for so long and you inevitably fall and scrape your knees, kindness isn’t a likely thing you're met with. Looking back, I realize I really was the walking tumblr girl trope without even trying.

The thing no one tells you about finding yourself at 18? It’s that you’ll fall. And fail. And fall. And fail some more. My knees creak at 32, still bruised and scarred from hitting the pavement. I’ve learned to catch myself in certain situations, but my palms still get scraped up every now and then. It reminds me I'm human and I'm alive.

They also don’t tell you that even though you may have the perfect playlists and the most perfectly worn Doc Martens and drug store eyeliner, the becoming in the coming of age isn’t just a film reel montage. It’s losing people. Yourself. People again. People you never thought you would. Yourself a whole lot more. It’s losing balance. Structure. Your voice. Everything.

It’s getting knocked down to rock bottom more times than you can count. All while the universe smirks, testing you while saying, “Do you have the balls to keep going, or are you going to quit?” even through gritted, bloodied teeth, bloodshot eyes and bone deep exhaustion, you pick yourself up.

Rinse. Recycle. Repeat.

Coleman hits that mark in every way imaginable with every breath in Coming of Age. She gets the quiet devastation of meeting yourself in the wreckage over and over, only to then years later finally allow yourself the grace, self compassion and empathy that you wanted– and needed– from everyone else. The unmooring of your foundation, the unspooling of the inner threads inside the mental, social, familial infrastructure– wound and rewound. All there in this song. The “maybe I am the problem” spiral followed by the rebirth of knowing you’re not. You never were. You never fucking were.

The cool toned shots of her sitting in a truck bed at dusk. Laying in the grass to watch the clouds go by. Foggy ocean tides rolling in and out. Golden light on a copper crown– these vignettes have lived single handedly in my mind, my heart and my memories. Past, present and future. They live in dreams and memories that haven’t happened yet. The contrast of cool to warm feels kinetic to my synapses and feels like I'm watching my life played back by someone else that's every version of me and who I've wanted to be. From the moment she sang, “My love they put the fear of God in you” I knew then that I couldn't stop the tears. Nor did I want to.

The fear of God they (my family) placed on my head, lives deep in my bones, rent free, trickling all the way to the tips of my toes. It's my 2 am nightmare, my raging imposter syndrome and inner monologues anytime I remotely fail at something. It's flashbacks in dusty film rolls of memories i'd much rather burn that I can't- no matter how hard I try.

My coming of age cost me, at the time what I thought was, everything. But now, at 32, I realize it gave me everything. It’s the kind of thing you don’t know or realize until the passages of time have flipped through enough pages in your storybook.

“I am not a perfect daughter// Though I've tried my best to be// And I am not a perfect lover// 'Cause I'm learning to love me// And I have only ever known the bottom// Because I chose to dive right in”

Jesus fucking Christ. Yeah, okay. Punch my heart out. It’s cool. It’s fine. I’m fine. We’re fine.

(See also: incredibly NOT fucking fine.)

“So I'm forgivin' my mistakes// And I'll learn to age with grace// Feels like it might be a coming of age”

I– *deep sigh*

Okay.

There’s a moment, around the bridge, when the music swells and the strings lift like a curtain, gauzy and warm like on a late summer day- and I swear I saw a montage of every version of me I’ve ever been and am currently becoming. The sweet child lost i wonder and fluffy clouds. The teen climbing to sit on the roof. The girl in the floor-length maxi skirts and clunky belt from Wet Seal. The drunk version of me sobbing into a stranger’s neck. The me that got back up the next morning and went to work anyway. The me that kept going. This is where the full body sobbing breakdown came in and I just let it. Fully. Wholly.

At 1:54, the song builds into the bridge and it sounds like a rewind. And you are. She is. I am. It's beautiful and tragic. Whole and missing pieces. Grief and love. Every ounce of paradoxical duality in the universe. All in one. Cocooning inside only to later bloom at 2:04 with rich tapestries of exhales and freedom, swaying in the wind, it makes me cry all over again.

It feels like an anthem because it is one. It's an anthem of self that is lived. It's bled. it's cried. It is earned.

Cassandra Coleman hit it out of the fucking park with her debut single. A holy rite of passage– this song is– it’s more than just a coming of age track on a mixtape or playlist or indie film soundtrack. It’s permission to be vulnerable and let the grief seep out of your pores for who you could've been- all your wasted potential and what-ifs. It's more than a debut, it’s a softcore rebellion– a revolution on holding all the past versions of yourself that still live inside you, that look at you in the mirror, begging to be held and finally is.

It's a sacred sound bath of tears and haunting melodies and lyrics for the inner 18 year old or the 60 somethings with wounded hearts. Anyone in between, under or over. It’s an ageless touchstone for anyone who finds themself staring a little too long out a window, asking themselves:

Who am I? What am I doing?

She takes the ache and alchemizes it into a golden thread, stitching the parts that still hurt. Tenderly and lovingly in a way that only comes from someone who knows what it means to not feel that from someone else. The music acts as a soft butterfly kiss, a balm to quell the hurt. She reminds us that even the most painful metamorphoses deserve a string section and spotlight. that, through the goop, you too will emerge a beautiful butterfly. Or moth– whichever you prefer.

“96 to 22.”

I still don’t know exactly what it means to her. But to me? It’s the stretch of old desert highway between who I was and who I’m becoming. And God, do I have so much road left to travel. To feel hot on the pads of my feet- holding and blistering me all at once.

Between fear and freedom. Love and loss– not just for others, but myself.

Between breaking down and building something new, Cassandra Coleman didn’t just write a debut single— she offered us a map home.

I didn’t know I needed this song until I heard it. And now? I can’t imagine my story without it.

Coming of Age was written by Coleman and songwriter Scott Krueger, while co-produced by Jack Antonoff at Electric Lady Studios. As her debut song, the infamous roots of Electric Lady and musical genius of Antonoff is sure to set her on to the world of success. and honestly? I absolutely cannot wait to see what she puts out next. Consider me sat.

Cassandra, with Coming of Age– you’ve gotten a fan for life.

Thank you so much for creating something that I didn’t realize I didn’t have the language for. Thank you for this touchstone for younger me, me now and future me.

Music = memory.

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