R&B Albums That Basically Counts As Going to Therapy
Below is a hand‑picked R&B syllabus for the soul—seventy albums that feel less like casual listening and more like a guided therapy session.
In a world where social media amplifies our emotions, R&B albums have become a go-to for soul-soothing therapy. From heartfelt confessions to empowering anthems, these records, trending across platforms, offer raw vulnerability and healing vibes. Whether you’re processing heartbreak or finding your strength, here’s a rundown of R&B albums that double as your personal therapist, no couch required. Leave the comments down below to add R&B albums that fit the bill.
Marvin Gaye, What’s Going On
Marvin Gaye turns protest into prayer. His suite about war, ecology, and police brutality invites listeners to breathe through grief and answer despair with empathy. The strings swirl like incense; the layered vocals feel like a neighborhood choir lifting each other up.
Therapy tracks: “What’s Going On,” “Mercy Mercy Me.”
Stevie Wonder, Songs In the Key of Life
Stevie Wonder writes a universal love letter. Across two LPs, he maps faith, poverty, joy, and fatherhood, letting every horn line sound like sunlight on the blinds. The opener alone feels like group meditation, and the social commentary cuts remind you that optimism is a choice.
Therapy tracks: “Love’s In Need of Love Today,” “Pastime Paradise.”
Mary J. Blige, My Life
Mary J. Blige’s sophomore set is a raw journal of depression, addiction, and survival. She sings from “the dark place” so the rest of us don’t have to stay there, turning diary pages into gospel‑level catharsis. If you need proof, music can keep a person alive—literally—Mary’s recent reflections on feeling “suicidal” while making the record seal the case.
Therapy tracks: “Be Happy,” “My Life.”
Mariah Carey, Butterfly
Mariah’s post-divorce metamorphosis is a masterclass in reclaiming autonomy: ballads turn whispered fears into flight plans while hip-hop crossovers announce new boundaries in real time. Listening front-to-back feels like watching someone leave the therapist’s office lighter, freer, and finally in control of her own schedule.
Therapy tracks: “Butterfly,” “Close My Eyes.”
Janet Jackson, The Velvet Rope
Janet turns a private nervous breakdown into an R&B séance, confronting depression, childhood wounds, sexual shame, and queer solidarity in the same breath. Interludes act like journal entries between sessions, while the production’s trip-hop haze invites slow breathing and body awareness. By album’s end she’s built a red-rope sanctuary where naming the hurt is the price of entry.
Therapy tracks: “Got ’Til It’s Gone,” “I Get Lonely.”
Ms. Lauryn Hill, The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill
Still the gold standard for turning diary pages into doctrine. Ms. Hill tackles heartbreak, motherhood, and God with a counselor’s candor, framing each lesson with those classroom skits that feel like group therapy check‑ins. Twenty‑five years on, it’s the syllabus for emotional literacy.
Therapy tracks: “Ex‑Factor,” “To Zion.”
D’Angelo, Voodoo
A slow‑burn meditation on love, fatherhood, and faith carved out of hypnotic Soulquarian jam sessions. The loose time‑feel forces you to breathe with the band; it’s mindfulness training disguised as funk.
Therapy tracks: “Send It On,” “Africa.”
Jill Scott, Who Is Jill Scott?: Words and Sounds, Vol. 1
Scott’s debut is a masterclass in affirmations: she speaks life into everyday Black womanhood, reframing self-love as a spiritual practice long before Instagram tried to commodify it. The spoken-word cadences feel like guided meditations, and each lush chord progression functions as a deep exhale.
Therapy tracks: “A Long Walk,” “Slowly Surely.”
Erykah Badu, Mama’s Gun
Erykah Badu trades the riddles of Baduizm for confessional straight talk about insecurity, break‑ups, and Black womanhood. The record’s central theme is freedom—emotional, sexual, spiritual—and it delivers that freedom through warm analog grooves that feel like a weighted blanket.
Therapy tracks: “Bag Lady” (drop that baggage!), “Green Eyes.”
Sade, Lovers Rock
Sade whispers comfort in the aftermath. Sparse reggae‑tinged grooves leave plenty of space for her calm alto to soothe heartbreak, new‑parent doubts, and quiet political rage. It’s the album you reach for when the room is dark, and you need a steady hand.
Therapy tracks: “By Your Side,” “King of Sorrow.”
India.Arie, Acoustic Soul
India.Arie plants seeds of self‑worth. Overhand drums and nylon‑string guitars, she affirms hair, skin, and spirit until the mirror looks friendlier. Each chorus works like a sticky‑note mantra on the bathroom wall.
Therapy tracks: “Video,” “Strength, Courage & Wisdom.”
Alicia Keys: The Diary of Alicia Keys
Alicia Keys writes her feelings in real time. Piano‑led confessionals wrestle with jealousy, gratitude, and self‑doubt, permitting listeners to name their own. The interludes feel like a deep breath between sessions.
Therapy tracks: “If I Ain’t Got You,” “Diary.”
Goapele, Change It All
Goapele swaps the incense-and-wine vibes of Even Closer for a rally of inner-city pep talks—self-love anthems, anti-war prayers, and whispered reminders that “tomorrow is possible.” Organic drums and Fender Rhodes chords breathe like guided meditations between activist shifts.
Therapy tracks: “Change It All,” “Fly Away.”
India.Arie, Testimony: Vol. 1, Life & Relationship
India.Arie has always written affirmation anthems, but this album is her actual vision board: self‑worth, body positivity, and boundary‑setting set to acoustic soul. It’s the musical equivalent of your therapist handing you a mirror and saying, “Speak kindly to the person you see.”
Therapy tracks: “I Am Not My Hair,” “Good Mourning.”
Maxwell, BLACKsummers’night
A grown‑man masterclass in feeling your feelings. Maxwell trades the scented‑candle sensuality of Urban Hang Suite for raw post‑break‑up inventory: guilt, acceptance, and moral reckoning. The horn stabs and live drums breathe like a therapist saying, “Take your time,” while his falsetto walks you from self‑blame to forgiveness.
Therapy tracks: “Pretty Wings,” “Fistful of Tears.”
Alicia Keys, The Element of Freedom
Keys builds an escape pod lined with affirmation: mid-tempo synth-soul that tells heartbreak to wait while the spirit stretches its wings. She said she wanted the record to feel like “love without limits,” and the result plays like a self-care playlist before the term went mainstream.
Therapy tracks: “Try Sleeping With a Broken Heart,” “Wait Til You See My Smile.”
Corinne Bailey Rae, The Sea
Written in the aftermath of her husband’s death, The Sea is a grief journal set to liquid soul: sorrow ebbs, hope flows, and every tremor of her voice feels like an honest check-in on the five stages of mourning.
Therapy tracks: “I’d Do It All Again,” “Are You Here.”
Frank Ocean, Blonde
Ocean dismantles masculine mythologies and lets the silences ring as loudly as the chords. The fractured song structures mirror therapy’s stop‑start excavation of memory; vulnerability becomes the only stable hook.
Therapy tracks: “Self Control,” “Seigfried.”
Solange, A Seat at the Table
Part family photo‑album, part group‑healing circle. Solange scores Black interiority with meditative soul, interludes that feel like affirmations, and choruses built for deep breathing.
Therapy tracks: “Cranes In the Sky,” “Mad.”
Alicia Keys, Here
Keys strips off the piano‑ballad polish and, famously, her makeup, to interrogate beauty standards, addiction, and systemic pain. The production bumps like New‑York‑stoop conversations, but the core is radical vulnerability—she’s modeling what it looks like to speak the messy truth out loud.
Therapy tracks: “Girl Can’t Be Herself,” “Holy War.”
Sampha, Process
Written in the wake of losing both parents, Process is grief counseling in 10 tracks. Sampha’s tremoring tenor hovers over skeletal synth‑soul, breaking exactly where the memories hurt. By the closing “What Shouldn’t I Be?,” he’s not “over” the loss—he’s simply learned to breathe alongside it.
Therapy tracks: “(No One Knows Me) Like the Piano,” “Timmy’s Prayer.”
SZA, Ctrl
If journaling is your therapist’s first homework, Ctrl is the sonic companion: messy margins, crossed‑out feelings, and epiphanies in real time. SZA’s oversharing is the point—it normalizes every anxious spiral.
Therapy tracks: “Supermodel,” “20 Something.”
Daniel Caesar, Freudian
Daniel Caesar names the album after the father of psychoanalysis for a reason: these gospel‑soaked love songs unpack ego, id, and intimacy with bedside‑manner gentleness. Choir harmonies swell like reassurance whenever the lyrics admit doubt—a sonic reminder that grace lives inside the mess.
Therapy tracks: “Blessed,” “We Find Love.”
Jhené Aiko, Trip
A concept album about grieving her brother, self‑medicating with psychedelics, and finding equilibrium. It’s equal parts guided meditation and diary entry, showing how spiritual practice and therapy intertwine.
Therapy tracks: “Jukai,” “Sativa.”
H.E.R., H.E.R.
Before the Grammys and arena lights, H.E.R.’s anonymous mixtape‑turned‑album offered a safe house for late‑night spirals: muffled beats, whispered confessions, and lyrics that validate every anxious over‑thinker. It’s less “tell me what to do” and more “I’m here in the dark with you.”
Therapy tracks: “Focus,” “Every Kind of Way.”
St. Beauty, Running to the Sun
The Wondaland duo turn coming-of-age jitters into sunshine therapy: airy harmonies unpack homesickness, boundary-setting, and dream-chasing until anxiety dissolves into day-glo optimism. It’s the aural equivalent of journaling in a park at golden hour.
Therapy tracks: “Borders,” “Tides.”
Chlöe x Halle, The Kids Are Alright
Across celestial vocal stacks and DIY synths, the Bailey sisters transform adolescent angst into futuristic gospel, turning every insecurity into a mission statement that “we got us.” It’s group therapy for Gen Z wrapped in Disney-sci-fi beats.
Therapy tracks: “Warrior,” “Happy Without Me.”
Janelle Monáe, Dirty Computer
Monáe hacks the mainframe of shame—queer, Black, femme—and uploads liberation scripts filled with sex-positive affirmations and Afrofuturist sermons. The record’s “emotion picture” film doubles as a somatic therapy session: breathe, dance, and decolonize the body.
Therapy tracks: “Don’t Judge Me,” “So Afraid.”
Mereba, The Jungle Is the Only Way Out
Across folk-flecked guitars, dusty 808s, and spoken-word mantras, Mereba maps an anxious trek through heartbreak, racial fatigue, and self-doubt—then marks the exit with signposts of grace. Each track feels like a checkpoint on a solo hike: admit the fear (“Black Truck”), gather allies (“Sandstorm”), and push toward clearing skies (“Stay Tru”). The sequencing paces your breathing, moving from tight, syncopated verses to wide melodic vistas that sound like finally seeing tree-line light.
Therapy tracks: “Sandstorm,” “Stay Tru.”
Solange, When I Get Home
Where A Seat at the Table diagnosed the wound, When I Get Home stages the breath-work. Looped mantras (“Down with the clique”) and Houston-screw dream-scapes invite somatic release—less verse-chorus catharsis, more sound-bath reset. Solange has since revealed she was “fighting for my life” in the studio, turning each hypnotic chant into proof that soft focus can still move mountains.
Therapy tracks: “Dreams,” “Almeda.”
LION BABE, Cosmic Wind
Singer Jillian Hervey and producer Astro Raw design a rooftop-at-sunset vibe that doubles as escapist therapy: mantras about letting energy “flow” drift over warm neo-soul grooves, encouraging listeners to loosen tension one bass-thump at a time.
Therapy tracks: “Different Planet,” “Never Before.”
Baby Rose, To Myself
With a contralto that sounds like midnight confession, Baby Rose sifts through abandonment wounds and anxious spirals atop molasses-slow grooves. Each song ends on a held note that feels like an exhale you didn’t know you were holding.
Therapy tracks: “All to Myself,” “Mortal.”
Snoh Aalegra, Ugh, Those Feels Again
Snoh treats heartbreak like exposure therapy, naming every pang of longing until it loses its sting. Interviews around the album highlighted how songwriting helps her manage lifelong anxiety; you can hear that coping mechanism in the careful pacing between torch-song crescendos and quiet interludes.
Therapy tracks: “I Want You Around,” “Situationship.”
SiR, Chasing Summer
SiR treats West-Coast breeziness like a Trojan horse for vulnerability: sobriety slips, survivor’s guilt, and father-figure doubt ripple beneath feather-light hooks. The album’s honesty is meant to “help people through adversity” as he puts it, and the warm synth-funk does exactly that, offering shade and water while you name the thirst.
Therapy tracks: “Hair Down,” “John Redcorn.”
Jhené Aiko, Chilombo
Aiko recorded much of Chilombo on Hawaii’s volcanic coast, tracking crystal-singing bowls on every song as literal sound-healing devices. The result is a 70-minute breath-work session that floats from rage (“Triggered”) to forgiveness (“One Way St.”), teaching listeners to let emotions surface, ring, and dissipate like bowls’ overtones.
Therapy tracks: “P*$$Y Fairy (OTW),” “Speak.”
Giveon, Take Time
Giveon’s baritone narrates heartbreak like a midnight voicemail you saved instead of sending. The eight-track suite dwells on longing but never wallows; his measured phrasing feels like naming intrusive thoughts before they race out of control—mindfulness you can hum along to.
Therapy tracks: “Heartbreak Anniversary,” “Like I Want You.”
Moses Sumney, græ
A double‑album meditation on liminality—gender, genre, belonging—græ turns identity crisis into expansive art‑soul. Sumney’s elastic falsetto, spoken‑word interludes, and orchestral freak‑outs mirror the nonlinear path of self‑integration. It’s the sound of learning to live in the gray.
Therapy tracks: “Cut Me,” “Me in 20 Years.”
Lianne La Havas, Lianne La Havas
Lianne La Havas blooms after the break‑up. The self‑titled set traces a relationship’s life cycle—infatuation, decay, rebirth—using guitar lines that pulse like a steady heartbeat. By the final fade‑out, acceptance sounds downright sweet.
Therapy tracks: “Bittersweet,” “Paper Thin.”
Ego Ella May, Honey for Wounds
The South-London singer sets a steamy jazz-soul backdrop for radical self-soothing: verses unpack micro-aggressions, heartbreak, and impostor dread, while the hook mantra “pour some honey on it” reframes hurt as harvest. May calls the record a “healing process,” and you can hear the toxins leave her bloodstream every time the bassline softens.
Therapy tracks: “Science,” “Girls Don’t Always Sing About Boys.”
Jazmine Sullivan, Heaux Tales
Jazmine Sullivan turns the confessional booth into a round‑table where Black women speak unfiltered about desire, shame, and agency. The spoken‑word interludes feel like group therapy, the songs like the breakthroughs.
Therapy tracks: “Girl Like Me,” “Pick Up Your Feelings.”
Arlo Parks, Collapsed In Sunbeams
Arlo Parks speaks for the anxious friend group. Her bedroom‑soul vignettes tackle depression, queer crushes, and survivor’s guilt with poet‑level clarity, turning whispered empathy into sing‑along hooks. It’s reassurance you can loop.
Therapy tracks: “Black Dog,” “Hope.”
H.E.R., Back of My Mind
Gabriella Wilson ditches the mystery-girl silhouette and names the fears that kept her there: impostor syndrome, political rage, romantic second-guessing. She’s said the record “pulls from the deepest, darkest places,” turning diary scribbles into communal catharsis for anyone who bottles feelings until they ache.
Therapy tracks: “Damage,” “Cheat Code.”
Cleo Sol, Mother
Cleo Sol sings like a lullaby for grownups. She reflects on new motherhood, ancestral wounds, and forgiveness over warm Rhodes chords that feel like sunrise through curtains. The album settles the nervous system in under an hour.
Therapy tracks: “Know That You Are Loved,” “Don’t Let Me Fall.”
NAO, And Then Life Was Beautiful
NAO writes an album about pacing yourself: choosing rest, practicing gratitude, and accepting imperfection. Interviews around the release hinged on “self-care and healing of my body,” and every airy chord progression sounds like opening the curtains after a long sick day.
Therapy tracks: “Messy Love,” “Wait.”
JoJo, Trying Not to Think About It
JoJo stages a panic-attack debrief—complete with smooth interludes from her inner critic—then walks listeners through CBT mantras set to neo-soul loops. It’s a 30-minute reminder that naming the monster steals half its power.
Therapy tracks: “Anxiety (Burlinda’s Theme),” “Spiral SZN.”
Amber Mark, Three Dimensions Deep
Grief meets astrophysics on this cosmic self-help quest: three “acts” move from doubt to surrender, using celestial metaphors and synth-choirs to frame loss as expansion. NPR called it Mark’s way of working through “feelings of uncertainty,” and the sci-fi gloss turns journaling into star-gazing.
Therapy tracks: “Healing Hurts,” “Worth It.”
Alex Isley & Jack Dine, Marigold
Named after a flower long used for herbal remedies, Marigold radiates the same calming properties: Alex Isley’s honey-soaked soprano drifts over Jack Dine’s gauzy Rhodes chords, creating a sonic safe-room where you can sort through attachment wounds without flinching. She moves from wistful longing (“Still Wonder”) to radical presence (“Under the Moon”), echoing the therapy cycle of recalling pain, honoring it, then releasing it. Isley herself have framed the project as a soundtrack for “self-discovery and deeper connection,” and its nine unhurried tracks feel like successive breathing exercises—slow, warm, and restorative.
Therapy tracks: “Love Again,” “Still Wonder.”
Syd, Broken Hearts Club
The Internet front-woman wrote half the album in love and half after the breakup, then stitched them together like a CBT worksheet charting trigger → feeling → coping skill. She credits weekly therapy for helping her narrate the spiral without glorifying it; the plush neo-soul keeps the processing gentle, not jagged.
Therapy tracks: “Fast Car,” “Goodbye My Love.”
Kehlani, Blue Water Road
After the stormy It Was Good Until It Wasn’t, Kehlani surfaces on a Malibu shoreline, trading survival mode for serenity. Ocean sounds, string swells, and queer‑love lullabies invite you to unclench; it’s somatic therapy disguised as sun‑drenched R&B.
Therapy tracks: “Little Story,” “Everything.”
PJ Morton, Watch the Sun
Morton wrote this album after what he calls “the storm” of isolation, chasing gospel-soul warmth and lyrical sunbeams as antidotes to despair. Songs glide from doubt to benediction, embodying his stated mission to “heal the world” one chorus at a time. Play it like a gratitude journal set to Hammond organ.
Therapy tracks: “Please Don’t Walk Away,” “The Better Benediction.”
Yaya Bey, Remember Your North Star
Bey stitches reggae, jazz, and bedroom R&B into a scrapbook of Black-woman healing: misogynoir call-outs, generational-trauma unpacking, and raunchy joy all live in the same diary. She’s said the album proves “the road to healing isn’t linear,” and every tempo switch backs that thesis.
Therapy tracks: “Keisha,” “Alright.”
India Shawn, Before We Go (Deeper)
Expanded from her 2021 EP, this LP plays like an audio vision-board: scripted affirmations, mother-tongue reminders that “you are complete love,” and plush slow-jam chords that leave space for breathwork. The project is about “getting back to you,” and each of them feels like a sticky-note mantra.
Therapy tracks: “Don’t Play With My Heart,” “Too Sweet.”
Ari Lennox, age/sex/location
Ari Lennox calls this her “eat‑pray‑love” era, and the record plays like a therapy notebook where self‑love finally wins over romantic craving. Neo‑soul warmth cushions hard truths about attachment styles, then flips to joyous autonomy—think mirror affirmations you can two‑step to.
Therapy tracks: “POF,” “Queen Space.”
Sudan Archives, Natural Brown Prom Queen
Brittney Parks raps, sings, and shreds violin through 18 tracks about colorism, body autonomy, and self-invention. The album is equal parts dance-floor catharsis and mirror work—every beat switch feels like catching a new angle of yourself and deciding to love it out loud.
Therapy tracks: “NBPQ (Topless),” “Home Maker.”
Jessie Reyez, Yessie
Reyez ditches revenge-fantasy grit for intimate reckoning: she meditates on attachment wounds, immigrant-kid guilt, and survivor strength across eleven tracks that oscillate between fury and zen. She’s described songwriting here as “self-therapy,” and the record feels like ripping off a bandage to let fresh air in.
Therapy tracks: “Mood,” “Still C U.”
Kelela, Raven
After a six-year quiet stretch, Kelela resurfaces with an aqueous dance-soul opus that treats the club as communal therapy for queer Black bodies. Deep-breath synth washes and lyrics about radical self-grounding frame every drop as a tiny breakthrough.
Therapy tracks: “Washed Away,” “Bruises.”
Kali Uchis, Red Moon In Venus
Uchis frames love as lunar ritual—acknowledging desire’s shadow side, then bathing it in devotional light. The slow-motion grooves and bilingual affirmations invite body-mind alignment, turning each bass line into a grounding exercise.
Therapy tracks: “I Wish You Roses,” “Blue.”
Chlöe, In Pieces
Chlöe Bailey assembles the shards of public scrutiny, heartbreak, and career pressure into a 14-track self-reclamation ritual. Sparse piano ballads sit next to trap-soul bangers, mirroring the swing between tearful catharsis and fierce resolve that real healing requires.
Therapy tracks: “In Pieces,” “Feel Me Cry.”
Daniel Caesar, Never Enough
Caesar’s third LP is a gnarled apology letter that walks through the five stages of grief—denial to acceptance—over woozy psych-R&B. On the surface, it may feel like a “bid for forgiveness,” but the deeper pull is how plainly he owns consequence, framing accountability as the most grown-up coping skill.
Therapy tracks: “Always,” “Pain Is Inevitable.”
Mahalia, IRL
Mahalia’s sophomore LP reads like a boundary-setting workbook—laying down “Terms & Conditions” for romance, admitting when therapy rewired her self-talk, and choosing reflection over revenge. The laid-back grooves let the hard truths land gently.
Therapy tracks: “Terms & Conditions,” “IRL.”
Kiana Ledé, Grudges
Ledé calls the album “one big journal prompt,” naming every bitter flash and then writing her way toward release. Her pen game and raw post-breakup vocals model emotional accountability, while the lush R&B palette keeps the shadow work gentle on the ears.
Therapy tracks: “Closure,” “Jealous.”
Victoria Monét, Jaguar II
Fresh off new-mom euphoria and a Grammy glow-up, Monét centers bodily confidence, ancestral pride, and financial boundaries. Horn stabs and gospel-choir swells feel like power poses you can dance to, making the record an endorphin-boosting follow-up to any tough therapy session.
Therapy tracks: “On My Mama,” “Alright.”
Cleo Sol, Heaven
If the previous records rip off the bandage, Heaven applies the salve. The London neo‑soul singer whispers mantras about faith, courage, and self‑love over lullaby‑warm arrangements—a sonic spa for frazzled nerves.
Therapy tracks: “Self,” “Don’t Let It Go to Your Head.”
Cleo Sol, Gold
Cleo Sol keeps the calm going. Minimal percussion and soft‑focus strings frame lyrics about patience, boundaries, and quiet hope, extending the safe space she opened on Mother. Think of it as the after‑session debrief.
Therapy tracks: “There Will Be No Crying,” “Golden Child.”
Jamila Woods, Water Made Us
After eulogizing cultural icons on LEGACY! LEGACY!, Woods turns the lens inward, floating through attachment wounds, joyful sex, and reclaiming softness. Water metaphors frame healing as cyclical—tidal, not linear, and the spoken interludes feel like voice-memos your therapist asks you to record between sessions.
Therapy tracks: “Tiny Garden, ““Good News.”
Sampha, Lahai
Where Process mourned loss, Lahai charts rebirth: new fatherhood, spiritual curiosity, and the leap-of-faith mindset required to keep living after grief. Layered vocals flutter like calm breaths, and the writing expands from personal wound-care to generational healing.
Therapy tracks: “Spirit 2.0,” “Jonathan L. Seagull.”
Sinéad Harnett, Boundaries
Harnett writes a love letter to her inner child, singing “no” as a full-sentence over velvety chords. The record maps the hard work of re-parenting yourself—setting limits, grieving past versions, and choosing softness without apology.
Therapy tracks: “Shoulder,” “Unfamiliar.”
Ravyn Lenae, Bird’s Eye
Lenae’s sophomore set feels like a growth journal set to psyched-soul: she processes family trauma, romantic disillusionment, and imposter jitters through feather-light falsetto and shape-shifting production, turning vulnerability into shimmering self-trust by the final chorus.
Therapy tracks: “One Wish,” “Love Me Not.”
SZA, SOS Deluxe: Lana
SZA’s “third album in disguise” picks up where SOS left off and softens the emotional free‑fall into measured self‑study. Fifteen new songs trade the panic of “Kill Bill” for patient synth‑soul grooves, letting her sift through jealousy, accountability, and cosmic purpose without rushing the verdict. The opener, “No More Hiding,” frames the record like a first therapy session—guitar, quiet breath, an admission that change is overdue—while later cuts such as “Drive” turn stream‑of‑conscious anxiety into a moving‑meditation chorus. Throughout, warm analog keys cushion the blunt self‑talk, making the listening experience feel less like eavesdropping on a meltdown and more like watching someone practice radical honesty in real time.
Therapy tracks: “No More Hiding,” “Drive.”
duendita, A Strong Desire to Survive
The newest entry is a fearless study of trauma, survival, and radical self‑acceptance. Choir passages, jazz chords, and glitchy electronics swirl around lyrics that read like therapy‑session transcripts. It’s messy, brave, and utterly present—exactly what healing sounds like in 2025.
Therapy tracks: “Why I Didn’t Report,” “Baby Teeth.”
The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill is my favorite album of all time. Nothing has come close.
Yess, yess and yesss!!! I could listen to these all days!!