The joy of feeling supported by a folk music community: on redundancy, rejections and finding what you love again

This weekend I switched off. I didn't apply for any jobs, or endlessly scroll the same job boards hoping for something magical to appear. I didn't hide under a duvet, wishing for things to be different and reflecting on what I was doing at work this time last year. Instead, I attempted to reset my brain by rediscovering something I have always loved. Folk music and playing tunes with others.

My life over the last few months since I was made redundant from a job I adored, hasn't had any certainty. I'd lost a lot (or so I thought) when I suddenly didn't have a manager who valued me and really did as much as she could to support me to grow, colleagues to chat to throughout the day, and a routine that my dyspraxic/ADHD brain craves.

This weekend I realised that the certainty I was sure was missing from my life, has actually been here the whole time. I was just looking in the wrong places.

On Friday night I turned my laptop off for the weekend, and spent three days playing music with other people. I didn't think about my job hunt for a whole weekend, apart from answering the inevitable "what do you do question?" when meeting new people. And telling those l know well, how I am really. I've taken the honesty approach, "Well, it's been a bit of a shit time recently and I'm exhausted," I said. Because if we can't be honest about the impact of redundancy and navigating a job market that doesn't understand inclusion with people we know, when will recognising redundancy as a traumatic loss be normalised?

I started learning to play fiddle when I was 7, and discovered folk music at 11 when I joined my school ceilidh band. A world where I have felt included, welcomed and supported. One afternoon my technology teacher wrote the words "THURSDAY NIGHTS, LECTURE THEATRE," in my planner to remind me to come to ceilidh band practice. Four words that have had a profound impact on the rest of my life. I went to ceilidh band after often difficult days navigating an education system that was not designed for neurodivergent young people, so entering the practice room became an escape from the day I had just endured. I felt included, and that I could be part of something where my contributions were valued. The first tunes I ever learned were Salmon Tails, Jamie Allen, and Maries Wedding, that we played in the school variety show concert one year. As I stood on the stage with the five other members of the band, I heard someone shout from the audience; "ew it's Alice, why is she up there?!"' I ignored her, and played louder. I was proud to be with other teenagers playing music together, nothing else mattered to me in that moment.

Since those early school days music has become much more than just something I once came to school to learn, it turned into the place where I feel I can belong. It was the first space I could truly be myself, (I'm convinced that most of the folk scene are neurodivergent which helps,) and be surrounded by people who want to encourage me because they really do care. Everything I do or every new experience (good and bad) comes back to my relationship with music, and how on the hardest of days it has offered so much comfort, grounding and calm. It reinforces what belonging means to me. Music is where your friends are, how you choose to spend your free time and where achievements are made. It symbolises unity, coming together and sharing stories. Folk traditions especially rely heavily on the stories that are passed down generations. Tunes also come with a story that are shared in sessions, usually by ear, so the tune often ends up with different variations, but the story remains the same. These stories highlight the sense of belonging people feel when they're brought together to play music.

Folk music has always been a big part of my life, but just before lockdown I began to play less and less. It would soon be months since I last got my fiddle out of its case. This was partly due to the #metoo movement in the folk scene that gained traction on social media, and becoming distanced from many of the people who I had grown up playing folk music with, alongside losing a friend in my 20's who was a core part of my friendship group at a folk music summer school. Although I can hear him being bewildered about him not being around partly contributing to me stopping playing. "play more tunes," I can picture him saying. Chasing whatever a 'career' was meant to mean also had an impact too.

Just before the redundancy I started playing music with other people again. I joined a folk ensemble, and when I was made redundant started going to a regular session on Thursday afternoons. I now also play with a new string quartet too. If I didn't have any of these things, my life would consist of writing job applications, reading email rejections, feeding the cats and occasionally going to bed, which isn't a great combination to help recover from trauma, when with every job application I have to re-live experiences I'd prefer to forget.

I was asked if I wanted to attend last weekend on a bursary, something I'm open about needing because one day we may all need someone to reach out and offer support. I said yes, and it has been one of the best decisions I've made all year. There was music, songs and dancing. I met new people, and others I haven't seen in months. We went for a walk to play tunes, there was exhaustion, fun and laughter. There was also many jokes (good or bad is always a matter of opinion), It was a place where my only worry was if I knew the next tune, and this wasn't even a big worry because I could mostly always pick them up. Although I did worry that having a difficult week would impact my weekend, that I'd become overwhelmed or wouldn't be able to switch off from my current reality waiting for me in my email inbox. But none of these things happened. I did start to feel a tiny bit teary in the middle of the concert when my mind began to wander, but I managed to firmly ground myself again, and remember I was there to give myself a break from the uncertainty I felt in other areas of my life. Here everything was certain. I knew there would be a session later. And knew I would be back there bright and early the next morning. Suddenly my weekend had structure, routine and certainty. After months of so much unknown, I felt comfortable again. When I've had constant rejection and had to deal with the accompanying Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria, being in a space where I'm wanted and included means everything.

This experience is echoed in previous periods of my life. Like most neurodivergent folk, my childhood and teenage years haven't been free from challenges. No matter what difficulty I was experiencing at school whether it was bullying, not being understood or feeling confused about my identity (I still had undiagnosed ADHD then), music would always be the space that became my sanctuary. My weekly violin lesson was a break from school, a break from not really fitting in and acted as short term relief from my anxiety.

This weekend I realised that whatever is going on, I will always have a community of people around me both locally and further afield. That despite currently facing worry, uncertainty and a lot of anxiety, I will always have music. I can be made redundant from a job, but no one can ever take folk music away. Music and its community will always be there.

Phoenix folk has become the certainty I didn't know I needed.