I first heard Kimya Dawson’s music on the “Juno” soundtrack. I hadn’t seen the movie – I was young, and my mother didn’t think it was appropriate – but we had the soundtrack on orange vinyl. The first song I remembered by name was “Tree Hugger.” I didn’t really understand it; I knew what Dawson was saying, but I didn’t know what she meant. But it was catchy, and her voice comforted me, so I quickly grew to love her – a very specific, deliberate love based on the hope that if I listened to enough of her music, I would become a good person and adopt her sense of appreciation for the small things in life.

As I reached adolescence, my feelings became diluted. I couldn’t feel emotions except in an epidermal sense. Only flesh wounds. There were pinches and burns and kisses and warm bathwater, but nothing pushed past the first few layers. Nothing reached into my chest, cracked my ribs, grabbed my heart and squeezed. I began to give up on feeling anything at all. And then, suddenly, Kimya Dawson brought me back to life.

It was all very theatrical, like something out of a movie. I was lying on my bedroom floor with the lights off, not feeling much of anything and listening to Dawson’s “I Will Never Forget.” The song was dizzying, the way it built up to the crescendo, the way her voice cracked in all the right places, the carnival sound of toy piano undertones. Then a breath of silence before she sang the words, “You don’t have to end up with people who self-destruct.” Suddenly I was crying. I cried, and listened to the song on repeat, and felt both cleansed of impurity and full of emotion.

I immediately set out to explore every song created by this beautiful hippie. I was not used to the rawness Dawson delivered with both the sound of her voice and the content of her words. Even the songs I wasn’t fond of I absorbed like air. I would lie awake at night and imagine her sitting at the edge of my bed, running her fingers through my hair and singing me to sleep. I would be enveloped by her scent – patchouli, sweat, and some other unnameable smell that is clean and motherly.

I wish she could be my mother – not to replace my own, but as a second mom of sorts. Someone to play guitar and sing and teach me a new way of thinking. I want her to help me embody the earthy lifestyle that I’ve only ever experienced through her music.

There are things that I need that I never realized I needed: incense, oil puddle rainbows, uneven floorboards, constantly bare feet, copious kisses, and felt-tip pens. I try to explain this to my friends and family, but they don’t understand. They smile and pat my hand, and in my mind I’m screaming, No, you don’t understand! I need this!

I can’t shake the feeling that, somehow, if Kimya Dawson was a part of my life, the platitudes, nighttime existential crises, self-loathing, and crippling restlessness would be easier to bear. I listen to her music and am able to foresee a simple and complete satiation of both my desires and lack thereof.