This week I’ve been “glazing”—offering flowers, not just in memory or mourning, but in recognition. To those who shaped me early, often quietly, and always with love.
Today, I want to glaze Mr. Michael L. Matthews—my band director, mentor, and one of the first people who helped me feel whole in my own mind.
I met Mr. Matthews when I moved to Sayre in the 5th grade, right when band began. I liked music at the time, but I hadn’t yet realized how essential it would become to my internal life. From day one in that band room, something shifted. My internal dialogue, always so loud and constant, found stillness when music started. Even then, I didn’t have the words for it. I just knew I felt safe there.
I played saxophone (not drums—family rules for me), and so began 8 years of music, parades, jazz solos, and glide steps. I was invited to join the high school band while still in junior high, surrounded by older kids who challenged and welcomed me. There, I found not just structure but signal. A rhythm. A way of being that allowed me to focus, to belong, to express.
And it wasn’t just about the music. Mr. Matthews kept an open-door policy. He let me vent. He encouraged me, challenged me, gave me room to try and space to fail. He once told me our beliefs change over time—that we have to allow ourselves to grow. At the time I was still deeply embedded in a conservative religious mindset. He didn’t debate. He just made space.
Years later, after college, marriage, and a full unraveling of identity, I found myself back in Sayre. Depressed. Searching. Close to 400 pounds and feeling like a shadow of myself. And there was Mr. Matthews—inviting me back into the fold, not with a lecture or even a conversation, but with an opportunity: community theatre. Creativity. A reminder of who I was and what I could still be.
Even now, I credit so much of how I function to him. I use music to navigate sensory overload, to self-regulate, to find peace. My Spotify history is a personal archive of survival—and it began in that band room. With him.
Mr. Matthews led the “Pride of Sayre” band to sweeping victories and national performances. His legacy still echoes today through state titles, superior ratings, and traditions he built that continue to shape young musicians. But to me, his greatest act was showing a strange, internal kid that music could be medicine—and that who I was, deep down, was enough.
Mr. Matthews, thank you. Thank you for your discipline, your softness, your persistence, and your humanity. I still hear your voice in my head, not barking orders, but reminding me that growth is allowed. That expression is sacred. That I was never alone in the noise.
To everyone else—go glaze somebody today. Especially the quiet mentors. Especially the ones who stayed.
Two more days to come. And every one matters.