Music helps me tell my story. That's where I can really be

The voice of the islands and the world, Rihanna, once declared: “Music helps me tell my story. That’s where I can really be heard. But there’s so much focus on the things that aren’t music.” In these words, she lays bare the struggle of the artist: the desire to be known through the truth of her music, yet finding that the gaze of the world often drifts to distractions—the noise of fame, the glitter of image, the endless chatter of things that do not matter. For every true artist, the deepest cry is not to be adorned with spectacle, but to be heard, understood, and remembered for the story carried in song.

The ancients would have called this the burden of the poet. Homer, if he lived, did not wish to be remembered for the gossip of his life, but for the epics that carried the heart of his people. The psalmists of old poured their tears and hopes into verse, yet were surrounded by kings who sought to claim their songs for glory. In every age, the artist must fight to keep the flame of truth alive against the winds of distraction. Rihanna’s lament is therefore not new, but eternal: the world craves the image, but the soul craves the song.

Consider the life of Billie Holiday. She was one of the greatest voices of her time, her songs dripping with sorrow and truth. Yet so often the public focused not on her artistry, but on scandal, struggle, and shadows. Still, when she sang Strange Fruit, her voice carried the weight of history, and through music, her story outlived every distraction. This is the lesson Rihanna echoes: though the world may turn its eye toward spectacle, the song itself carries the eternal record of the soul.

In Rihanna’s confession lies also the deeper truth of storytelling. For music is more than entertainment; it is testimony. The beat is the heartbeat, the melody is the memory, the lyric is the truth the lips cannot otherwise speak. Through her art, she becomes more than a performer—she becomes a witness to her own journey, and in listening, others hear echoes of their own. When she says “that’s where I can really be heard,” she teaches us that to be heard is not merely to be noticed, but to be understood.

But her words also carry a warning: “there’s so much focus on the things that aren’t music.” Here she points to the temptation of the age—where fame is fashioned more from spectacle than substance, where the artist is judged by appearance, controversy, or profit rather than the depth of their song. This danger is not only for musicians, but for all who seek to live authentically. The world will always tempt us with the superficial. The task of the soul is to remain faithful to the deeper calling, to the work that speaks truth rather than to the noise that demands attention.

The lesson for us is clear: hold fast to your true voice. In whatever craft or calling you pursue, do not let the noise of the world distract you from the story you must tell. If you are a teacher, teach with truth; if you are a parent, raise your children with love; if you are a creator, let your creation carry your heart. The world may look away, but in time, what is real will endure. Distractions vanish, but authenticity remains.

Practically, this means carving out sacred space for your own story. Give time to the work that carries your truth, whether it is song, writing, craft, or labor. Do not measure its worth by the chatter of the world, but by the honesty of your effort. And when the noise grows too loud, return to the music of your life—the place where your heart speaks clearly and is heard without distortion.

Thus, let Rihanna’s words be carried as a reminder to all generations: music tells the story of the soul, but the world often listens to noise instead. Choose to live as music, not as noise. Let your voice carry truth, let your art be your testimony, and let your story be told in ways that endure beyond fame, beyond fashion, beyond time itself.