To the Listener Who Still Sings: A Response to Heidi Berry

I've been listening to Heidi Berry for most of my adult life—through imported LPs, late-night headphones, and now, strangely and beautifully, through her words. Her recent blog post, The Burning Question, hit with the weight of a whispered truth—one you didn't know you needed to hear until someone finally said it with grace, weariness, and wit.

It's an essay about conversation, yes—but more deeply, it's about the burden of being the listener. Of becoming the nodding figure in everyone else's narrative, the “mm-hmm” technician holding up someone else's spotlight. Of wondering when—or if—you're allowed to speak without apologizing for the intrusion.

I read it and saw myself. Not just in the habit of reflective listening, but in the fatigue. The delicate calculations: Was that question too sharp? Did I share too soon? Am I invisible, or just professionally quiet?

What Heidi names—what she offers—is the map of a life lived with sensitivity that refused to harden. That's not fragility. That's endurance in its most human form.

She writes like she sings: with an open pulse and no protective sheen. Which makes sense, because her voice—on those Creation and 4AD records, on Pete Astor's "Submarine," on that Aeroplane EP from 1996, on her near-transcendent cover of Hüsker Dü's “Up in the Air”—was never about volume. It was always about presence.

I don't think she ever enjoyed a breakout moment in her musical career. She broke through in quieter ways, however. Her songs didn't chase trends—they waited for the right ears. And now, she's doing the same with her words.

So here's a thank-you. For the music, yes. But also for the honesty, the vulnerability, the way you remind us that the art of being a good listener doesn't mean silencing yourself. It just means learning when your voice can be an instrument of care instead of control.

You're still here, Heidi. Still listening. Still teaching. And yes—still singing.