Cass Elliot is, was, and always will be the mother of making your own rules.
I may be a ‘90s grunge child, but there’s always space for The Mamas and the Papas—and especially Cass as a solo artist—in my life. In a world full of skinny blonde sopranos, there was Cass Elliot’s velvet-rich alto voice coming from a luscious brunette, reminding us there’s more than one song worth singing—and more than one way to live a life.
For a well-built, alto-singing swimming girl like me, hearing Cass Elliot sing with liberating charisma—owning every note, every inch of space she took up—made the world feel safer. More loving. More acceptable.
While everyone else seemed to be dreaming of cookie-cutter success and polished suburban ideals—”the American Dream”—I was learning to trust the anthem in Cass’s voice: Make your own kind of music.
And here’s the thing—Cass didn’t just sing those words. She lived them. Through a life full of contradiction, resistance, and fierce self-expression.
Cass Elliot was told over and over that she didn’t “look the part.” She didn’t fit the image of the pop star machine, and she wrestled deeply with body shame, rejection, and a music industry that valued appearance over talent. But she kept going. She kept singing. She poured her heartbreak, her humor, and her hope into her music.
And while she never got the full recognition she deserved in her lifetime, she carved out a place in music history—not by fitting into the mold, but by creating one around her.
She faced criticism. She faced loneliness. She battled insecurities and tried to make peace with the impossible standards placed on women. But what Cass left behind wasn’t just a voice. It was permission.
Permission to be. To show up fully. To make noise that doesn’t ask for approval. She made space for weirdos, misfits, and late bloomers. For dreamers with messy pasts and big, aching hearts.
That’s why Make Your Own Kind of Music hits so damn hard.
Because we’ve all been fed the same American Dream formula: behave, achieve, conform, and coast. Be grateful. Buck up. Don’t rock the boat.
And for those of us who never quite fit that mold—or were never even drawn to it—we start to wonder if something’s wrong with us.
But here’s what I’ve come to believe: Living a story that’s been curated for everyone works for no one.
There’s a massive gap between the American Dream, which promises freedom, opportunity, and upward mobility and the actual American Experience that often delivers disillusionment, systemic barriers, and selective belonging. And in that space between? That’s where we wake up. Where we stop performing and start living—fully, finally, alive.
It’s cutting ties with a performative script—one that leaves no room for edits, no space to explore. The slow crush of performing what no longer feels right.
It’s where we realize our lives are not one-size-fits-all, and our worth isn’t measured by how perfectly we obtain the American Dream—but by how honestly and consistently we live in alignment with our values.
It’s where we begin to honor our personal truths over collective expectations. Where we allow our pain and our joy to exist side by side—expanding our container for love and kindness. And creating a better experience for those who come after us, irrespective of their identity.
We stop editing ourselves for other people’s comfort—and start cutting out the lies and the noise. So we can start structuring our lives that reflect who we are and what we want.
We stop numbing. We stop masking.
And we start showing up—in our own damn song.
So yeah. Even if no one else sings along?
Even if the crowd isn’t clapping?
Even if there are no lighters waving?
Sing anyway.
Create anyway.
Trust anyway.
Don’t just survive within the American Experience —survive the life you desire.
Make your own kind of music. Sing your own special song—even if nobody else sings along.
And if you’re wondering if you’re too old, too weird, too broken (though I don’t believe any of us are broken), or too late to make your own kind of music?
You’re not.
I bet Cass Elliot would tell you to start belting whatever comes to mind from the rooftops—now, today, in this moment.
To live loudly in that space between the Dream and the reality.
To be the kind of presence that shifts the whole experience for someone else.
To create a life that doesn’t just look good—but feels true.
