I'm naturally sort of a sad person, and that comes out in my

In the words of Kali Uchis, we find a truth both tender and grave: "I’m naturally sort of a sad person, and that comes out in my music, but when I realized how many people were listening to it... I wanted to be a little more conscious about what I was putting out and what people were going to be taking from it." This utterance is not the idle sigh of an artist but the solemn reflection of one who has discovered the weight of her own voice. For every word uttered, every melody sung, becomes like a seed cast into the hearts of others, capable of nourishing hope or deepening sorrow.

In this confession lies the recognition that art is not a private vessel, but a river that flows outward, carrying with it the essence of the one who made it. To be “naturally sad” is no fault, for sorrow has often been the mother of beauty. Yet when sadness becomes a perpetual offering to the multitude, it can create a tide of heaviness that presses upon the spirit of those who listen. Thus, Uchis chooses the path of responsibility, awakening to the truth that creation is not only self-expression, but also a gift to the world, and gifts must be chosen with care.

The ancients knew this well. The poet Hesiod warned that the tales sung by bards could shape the hearts of whole cities, filling them with either justice or discord. Similarly, the philosopher Confucius taught that music molds the soul of the people, guiding their conduct as surely as laws and edicts. When Alexander the Great marched to battle, it was not only the clash of arms but the songs of his men that filled him with courage. And when the great tragedians of Athens penned their plays, they stirred the conscience of their nation. Thus, history declares: the artist is no mere dreamer; he is also a teacher of souls.

Consider the tale of Victor Hugo, who wrote of the poor, the exiled, and the broken in Les Misérables. He did not conceal the sorrows of his heart, but neither did he leave his readers in despair. He poured into them a vision of redemption, of light breaking through the darkness of injustice. Through him, countless souls were lifted, and society itself was moved toward compassion and reform. He, too, understood what Uchis now voices—that what we release into the world shapes the destiny of others.

This does not mean that sadness should be silenced. No, for sorrow has its own nobility. When voiced with honesty, it allows others to recognize their own hidden griefs and find solace in shared humanity. But the teaching here is that the artist must be conscious—not to deny pain, but to balance it with the seed of hope, the whisper of healing, the possibility of change. The power of influence is sacred, and once discovered, it demands reverence.

The lesson for us, children of tomorrow, is clear: whether through words, actions, or the silent aura of our presence, we are all creators of atmosphere in the lives of others. What we radiate becomes what others breathe. Therefore, let each one ask: Am I giving despair, or am I giving light? Am I merely echoing my own sadness, or am I transforming it into something that uplifts? This is the discipline of responsibility, the noblest labor of the soul.

Practical action lies before us: let us be mindful of our expressions, whether in speech, in art, or in daily deeds. If sadness arises, let it not remain untempered—let it be joined with compassion, with honesty, with a hint of strength that others may find their way through it. Cultivate balance: when you write, sing, or even speak to a friend, sow words that acknowledge reality but also point to the dawn beyond the night. In this way, your influence becomes a torch, not a burden.

Thus, the teaching of Kali Uchis resounds like an echo from the ancients: to create is to guide, and to guide is to bear a sacred trust. May we all remember that what flows from us enters into the hearts of others, shaping their steps upon the road. Therefore, let our offerings be conscious, let them be worthy, and let them be filled with both truth and hope. For in this lies the nobility of the human spirit.