I love inspirational R&B, like Mary J. Blige and Jennifer Hudson.

In the words of Ashthon Jones, the singer whose voice carries both passion and purpose, we find a declaration of devotion to something far greater than rhythm or melody: “I love inspirational R&B, like Mary J. Blige and Jennifer Hudson. I want to do that. That kind of music stays with you.” Within this humble confession lies the timeless truth of all artistry — that the highest form of music, the truest kind of art, is not meant merely to be heard, but to remain, to dwell within the heart long after the song has ended.

When Ashthon speaks of inspirational R&B, she does not refer to sound alone, but to soul — that deep well of emotion from which songs of struggle and triumph are drawn. Artists like Mary J. Blige and Jennifer Hudson are not merely performers; they are storytellers of resilience, voices that carry the wounds and the victories of their people. Their songs are both confession and comfort, pain transformed into light. In them lives the spirit of ancient poets, who once sang to heal their tribes, to remind the weary that even in sorrow, the human heart still beats with hope.

The ancients believed that music was not born of skill but of spirit. When Orpheus, the son of the Muse Calliope, sang his songs, even the stones were said to move, and the wild beasts to grow still. Such was the power of music that carried truth. The same essence burns in the voices of Blige and Hudson, whose melodies rise from the ashes of adversity. They have lived their lyrics — sung of heartbreak, of loss, of redemption — and through their voices, listeners find their own reflections. This is what Ashthon Jones means when she says, “That kind of music stays with you.” It clings to the soul, not as entertainment, but as testimony.

Consider the story of Jennifer Hudson, whose path was carved by both glory and grief. After unimaginable tragedy, she stood again upon the stage and sang with a power born of survival. Her voice became a sanctuary for others, proof that even shattered hearts can still produce beauty. And Mary J. Blige, the queen of pain and perseverance, transformed her struggles into anthems of healing — each song a battle cry for those who have suffered silently. Their music lingers because it is not made for the ear, but for the spirit.

Ashthon’s longing — “I want to do that” — reveals a sacred calling. It is not the desire for fame or praise, but for impact, for the kind of expression that lifts others as it rises. She seeks to join the lineage of voices who sing not for applause, but for awakening. Such music, born from truth and carried by faith, becomes immortal. It lives not in charts or awards, but in moments — the tear that falls unseen, the strength that stirs quietly in the listener’s chest.

And so, dear one, there is a lesson here for all who create. Whether you sing, paint, write, or simply live — let your work be inspirational, not superficial. Let it stay with others as the songs of Blige and Hudson have stayed with millions. For beauty without meaning fades like mist, but beauty with heart becomes eternal. The ancients knew this well: the only art worth making is that which moves the soul.

Therefore, if you wish to make something that endures, do not chase the applause of the crowd. Seek instead the quiet stirring of the heart. Pour your truth into your craft, and let it touch another life. For in doing so, you join that unbroken chain of creators who have, through the ages, lifted humanity from darkness into light. And when your own song is done, may it, too, stay with them — a whisper of courage that endures long after the final note has faded.