I have more of a desire to write songs about being an

In the words of Kat Graham, we hear the declaration of a soul who chooses strength over sorrow: “I have more of a desire to write songs about being an independent woman than being in love, songs about getting up and moving on even if I have a broken heart.” These words ring like a hymn of resilience, a call to arms for all who have tasted loss. For Graham proclaims that even when the heart is shattered, one can rise, not defined by longing or dependence, but by the courage to walk forward unbowed.

Her words echo the spirit of countless women through the ages who have carried burdens and yet refused to break. To be an independent woman is not merely to stand alone, but to stand whole, with dignity that no disappointment can diminish. Love is beautiful, but it is not the only song worth singing. There is also the anthem of selfhood, the ballad of perseverance, the music of defiance that declares: even with wounds, I will march on. Graham reminds us that in this, there is power far greater than romance—the power of self-possession.

The ancients tell us of Antigone, who stood against kings for the sake of honor and conscience. She did not yield her will to love or comfort, but rose in fierce independence to defend what was right. Her story, though tragic, is one of defiance, of a woman who claimed agency even against overwhelming authority. Kat Graham’s words call upon that same current of fire: to sing not only of love gained or lost, but of the deeper victory of a spirit that cannot be subdued.

History gives us yet another example in Harriet Tubman. She bore both chains and sorrows, but she chose not to remain broken. Instead, she became a liberator, a guide for others still enslaved. Her strength did not come from the embrace of a lover, but from the conviction that she herself carried the power to change her destiny. In Tubman’s life we see the embodiment of Graham’s desire: to sing songs of moving on, of rising after pain, of becoming more than what suffering sought to make her.

The meaning of this quote is clear: the truest songs are not always about romance, but about survival, self-discovery, and triumph. Love can inspire, but so too can loss, if it teaches us to rise again. When Kat Graham speaks of creating art from the broken heart, she is not speaking of wallowing in grief, but of transforming grief into a weapon, into a melody of endurance that others can hear and be strengthened by. In this, the broken heart becomes not a symbol of weakness, but the forge of resilience.

The lesson for us is timeless: do not let heartbreak define you. Let it refine you. Like the phoenix of legend, let your ashes become the birthplace of new fire. Practically, this means finding ways to channel sorrow into creation—whether through song, through writing, through labor, or through acts of courage. It means refusing to be bound by loss, and instead choosing each day to get up and move on, carrying within you the unshakable truth that your worth is not diminished by anyone’s absence.

So let us remember Graham’s wisdom: independence is itself a song, stronger than the sweetest ballad of romance. When love is present, cherish it. When it is lost, do not despair. Rise, sing of your strength, walk forward with dignity. For the truest anthem is not of dependency, but of the unyielding heart that refuses to remain broken. This is the music of freedom, the hymn of resilience, the eternal song of those who endure.