Strings That Held Me Together

If you’ve spent any time in the TAC forums, you probably know Loraine.

She’s one of the first to cheer you on when you post, always ready with encouragement—even when life hasn’t been easy behind the scenes.

Today, she’s sharing a story many of us never knew. Because sometimes, when caregiving, grief, and isolation threaten to erase your identity. Picking up an old guitar can be the most defiant and healing act of all.

“Music is life. That’s why our hearts have beats.”

That quote was printed on a photo I once saw online…
and it stuck with me.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but that line would save my life.

Locked In

It was July 2020, and I was sitting across from my mother, who no longer recognized me.

She fiddled endlessly with a piece of fabric, repacking her purse every few minutes. She was locked in her own world—and I was locked in with her. Literally. A key hung around my neck because I had to install deadlocks to keep her from wandering off.

My mother had Lewy body dementia. Before COVID, she’d been attending adult daycare, but once the world shut down, so did she. So did I.

Wisconsin, Winter, and the Collapse

A few months earlier, I’d driven from Philadelphia to rural Wisconsin to reclaim my mother’s retirement property—once a peaceful oasis of barns, woods, and memories. My daughter and I had spent countless weekends there with my stepdad and mom, raising dogs and making music. But now?

It was a warzone.

The tenants had gutted the place—breeding dogs inside, leaving behind rotting food, feces-stained floors, broken appliances, and piles of tires and trash. The damage was staggering. I spent two weeks filling dumpsters, alone, in freezing weather with no heat.

I cried every day. It felt like a violent desecration of something sacred—my mother’s dream, and a piece of my own history.

The Descent

Back home, I became my mother’s full-time caregiver. Her mind unraveled fast. She accused me of stealing, of hiding people in the house. She locked herself in her room, packed suitcases, and tried to escape. The police were called more than once.

I started playing online poker to numb the pain. I spent money I didn’t have. I was grieving a mother who was still alive—but fading in front of me. I felt completely alone.

I needed something better. I needed something real.

A Guitar in the Closet

Twenty years ago, my stepdad gave me a Guild F30 he’d found at a garage sale. I’d always loved the warmth of acoustic guitars—the way they speak without words. That Guild had sat in a closet, untouched, all that time.

Now, I pulled it out.

I’d played piano and violin as a child, so I could read music. But my father—never supportive—once told me, “You have beautiful form, but you’re not very good at anything.” That voice haunted me.

Still, I was desperate. I started with YouTube, and slowly worked my way into online forums. I overshared, I vented, I connected. And people were kind. That kindness kept me going.

One day, my mom—briefly lucid—heard me play and said, “That sounds really good.” Later, she changed her tune. But it didn’t matter. I wasn’t playing for her.

I was playing to stay alive.

The Turning Point

There was a moment, about two years in, where I almost quit. I felt like a failure, like I’d never be good enough. But I was heading to a group jam in Florida, and I decided to really prepare.

The trip wasn’t perfect. Not everyone was kind. But I did something important: I stood up for myself. I stopped letting others define my worth. And after that… my guitar journey took off.

I began learning faster. I sang—badly, but bravely. I found fluidity and confidence. For the first time in years, I felt proud.

My Happy Place

Today, my mother is gone. She passed away four years ago after being placed in a nursing home. The guilt of that decision will always ache—but I know I gave her love, laughter, and safety for as long as I possibly could.

In the quiet that followed her passing, I found my way back to myself.

My guitar room has a sign that says, This Is My Happy Place. And it is.

It’s where I go when the grief creeps in. It’s where I remember the strength I never knew I had. It’s where I remind myself:

I’m not the girl my father dismissed.
I’m not the failure I feared.
I am a player. A survivor. A soul set free by music.

And that… is enough.