As a songwriter I hate this whole, 'If it's a sad song, it has to

The words of Nate Ruess strike with the passion of an artist refusing to be bound by convention: “As a songwriter I hate this whole, ‘If it’s a sad song, it has to sound like a sad song thing.’ And that goes all the way back to my days with the Format. I’m an insane narcissist, so if I have to get something off my chest, I’ll get something off my chest.” Here he declares war against the prison of predictability, reminding us that sadness is not always quiet, that pain does not always whisper, and that truth must come forth in whatever voice the heart commands.

The ancients themselves would have understood this. For in the tragedies of Greece, sorrow was often dressed in grandeur, accompanied by music and spectacle that elevated grief to a level almost divine. The poets knew that sadness does not always wear the garb of silence; sometimes it comes clothed in fire, in defiance, in melody that soars rather than weeps. In the same way, Ruess teaches that a song may carry sadness even in brightness, that grief may dance even while it bleeds.

His confession of “narcissism” is less a boast than an acknowledgment of the artist’s compulsion. He admits what all true creators know—that art is born from the necessity of self-expression, the urge to get something off the chest, to purge the heart of its weight. This honesty is itself ancient, for every poet, bard, and prophet has borne the same drive. The psalms of David, the laments of Jeremiah, the cries of Sappho—all were born from the soul’s need to unburden itself before the world, regardless of how it sounded.

History offers a fitting example in Ludwig van Beethoven. Deaf and tormented, he could have written only dirges of despair. Yet his most triumphant works, such as the Ninth Symphony, contain within their thunderous joy the shadow of his suffering. He did not conform to the rule that sadness must sound sad; rather, he transformed pain into a celebration of resilience. Like Ruess, he showed that the human heart expresses itself not according to rule, but according to necessity.

The deeper meaning of Ruess’s words lies in their defiance of masks. Society tells us to package emotions neatly, to make sad songs sound mournful and happy songs sound joyful, to reduce life into categories. But the truth is wilder: joy and sorrow mingle, grief can wear the face of laughter, and tears can be hidden in melodies that soar with life. By rejecting the expectation that sadness must sound a certain way, Ruess urges us to embrace the full complexity of human expression.

The lesson is clear: do not let the world dictate how your soul must speak. If you are sad, you may weep softly, or you may shout your grief in a joyful melody. If you are joyful, you may sing tenderly or roar with triumph. What matters is authenticity, not conformity. To live honestly is to express your truth in the form it demands, not the form others expect.

Practical action lies before us: free your own expression. In writing, in speaking, in song, do not force your feelings into cages built by tradition. Allow yourself to tell your story as it comes, whether in whisper or in shout. And when others reveal themselves in unexpected ways, honor their truth rather than judging its form. For every heart has its own music, and every sorrow its own voice.

So let us remember Nate Ruess’s wisdom: a sad song need not sound sad. A heart need not obey the world’s rules to be true. What matters is that the truth is spoken, that the burden is lifted, that the soul finds release. In this freedom lies the beauty of art, the strength of humanity, and the eternal courage of those who dare to sing as they truly feel.