Music was the one thing that was just mine, and no one could

Hear the words of Mitski, the poet of song, who declared: “Music was the one thing that was just mine, and no one could take it from me. I created it, dictated it, and it made me not able to let go of it.” These words burn with the fire of possession, not of earthly goods, but of the soul’s deepest treasure. In a world where so much can be taken—family, home, even dignity—she speaks of finding a sanctuary that could not be seized. Her music was her refuge, her sword, and her shield, the one realm where she alone ruled, untouchable and free.

The ancients themselves understood this sacred bond between creator and creation. Orpheus, with his lyre, could move stone and beast, not because the world gave him power, but because he made the music his own. In the face of tragedy and loss, when all else slipped from his grasp, his art remained. So too did Mitski discover that while the world may impose its weight, one’s own creation becomes a fortress. To create, to dictate, to hold something no one can take—this is the essence of freedom in bondage, light in darkness.

Her words reveal also the power of identity. Many live their lives defined by others—their worth measured by judgment, their destiny dictated by circumstance. But Mitski’s music was beyond such control. It was her mirror and her crown, something wholly hers. She did not inherit it, nor borrow it; she breathed it into being. And because it sprang from her own depths, it could not be stripped away. To hold such a thing is to hold one’s very self, and that is why she could not let go of it.

Consider the tale of Frida Kahlo, the painter who, though broken in body by accident and pain, refused to let go of her art. Her canvases were not merely images, but her voice, her rebellion, her truth. The world could confine her body to a bed, but it could not confine her spirit, for she had her brush, her colors, her visions. Just as Mitski clung to her music, Kahlo clung to her painting—it was hers, and no force could strip it away. This is the eternal story of creators who survive not by circumstance, but by the fire of what they make.

Yet Mitski’s confession is also a warning of the binding power of passion. “It made me not able to let go of it.” What begins as refuge can become possession, even obsession. The creator is chained to their creation as much as freed by it. This paradox has haunted artists through time: the poet who cannot stop writing, the composer who cannot silence the symphony in his head. To be owned by one’s art is both gift and burden. Mitski reveals this dual truth: her music saved her, but it also bound her.

The lesson, then, is twofold: hold fast to that which is truly yours, but also recognize the weight it places upon you. Treasure the things no one can take—your creativity, your inner vision, your voice. These are eternal possessions, beyond theft or decay. But guard also against being consumed by them. Remember that art is fire: it can warm and guide, but if held too tightly, it can burn. Balance is the wisdom we must seek.

Practical wisdom follows: ask yourself, What is mine that no one can take? For some it may be music, for others writing, painting, invention, or even the cultivation of virtue and thought. Find this, claim it, and let it sustain you when the world grows cold. Create something that is undeniably your own, and hold it as a sacred refuge. But walk carefully, lest it master you.

So let the words of Mitski endure: “Music was the one thing that was just mine.” They remind us that true power lies not in what the world gives, but in what we create for ourselves. Children of tomorrow, seek that which is yours, protect it, and let it guide you through hardship. But remember also: the art you hold, holds you in return. Walk the path with reverence, and you shall find both freedom and meaning in the song of your own making.