I write about heartbreak because I like writing about sad things

Jackie Evancho, whose voice once rose like a hymn beyond her years, spoke these tender words: “I write about heartbreak because I like writing about sad things, but I’m writing happy songs, too!” Though youthful in tone, the quote carries within it a wisdom as old as poetry itself: that both joy and sorrow are threads in the same tapestry, and that the artist, like the weaver, must use both colors if the design of life is to be complete.

The ancients knew well that art flourishes not in one emotion alone, but in the balance of opposites. The poets of Greece sang of both tragedy and comedy; Homer gave us the grief of Hector’s death and the triumph of Odysseus’ homecoming. To write only of happiness is to ignore the valleys that give meaning to the mountains; to write only of sadness is to forget that dawn follows night. Evancho, in her simplicity, reminds us that true creation embraces both—heartbreak and healing, sorrow and celebration.

Consider the story of Beethoven, who, though deaf and burdened by despair, composed not only dirges of sorrow but also symphonies of soaring joy. The “Ode to Joy,” perhaps his most famous work, was not born in a life untouched by grief, but in a soul that had endured it and chosen to sing still. This is the deeper truth of Evancho’s words: it is precisely because she knows how to dwell in sadness that her happy songs ring with authenticity.

The quote also reveals the courage of vulnerability. To write of heartbreak is to open wounds, to show weakness where others might hide. Yet it is this very openness that makes art resonate with the listener. The ancients praised the bard not for invulnerability but for honesty, for the bard gave voice to what others could not say. When Evancho sings of sorrow, she speaks not only for herself but for all who have walked through sadness. When she sings of joy, she invites all to share in her light.

There is also balance here, a lesson for all who live. For just as the artist cannot remain forever in sadness, neither can the soul. One must learn to move between shadow and sun. The happy songs remind us not to be consumed by grief, while the sad songs remind us not to forget that life is fragile and precious. Together, they teach us the rhythm of existence: loss and renewal, pain and joy, heartbreak and love.

History also gives us the example of the Psalms of David. Some verses are cries of despair—lamentations of a heart crushed by suffering. Others are jubilant songs of praise, rejoicing in deliverance and peace. Yet all belong to the same sacred book. So it is with the work of every artist, and indeed with every life: the complete story requires both notes of sorrow and melodies of joy.

The lesson, then, is clear: embrace both the dark and the light in your own story. Do not fear to express your heartbreak, for it teaches empathy and depth. Do not neglect your happy songs, for they teach gratitude and hope. And above all, understand that both are needed to make your life whole. The one who sings only of joy may seem shallow; the one who sings only of grief may despair. But the one who dares to sing of both walks in the fullness of truth.

So let each who hears these words take them to heart: create with honesty, live with balance, and do not fear the mingling of sorrow and joy. For in the weaving of both, you will find beauty that endures, and like Jackie Evancho, you will discover that the soul’s music is most powerful when it holds both tears and laughter within the same song.