The Story Behind the Song
Into the Pit
Depression and anxiety don’t always look like the movies make them out to be.
Sometimes it’s cold stone walls in a deep, dark place where you’ve made a kind of home. Not because you want to be there, but because you’re too numb to climb out. Too tired to even see the rope someone’s lowering down to you.
I wrote “Love’s Rope” from both sides of that pit. I’ve been the one at the bottom, unable to believe rescue was real. And I’ve been the one up top with bleeding hands, lowering hope into darkness, praying it reaches.
This isn’t a song about fixing someone or being fixed. It’s about presence. It’s about holding the line when the person you love can’t see the light yet.
The Metaphor That Wouldn’t Let Go
The image came to me fully formed one night: a deep pit, cold and wet, and someone above holding a fraying rope with split-open palms. Every night, lowering what they have left, even when the person below can’t see it falling.
That’s what loving someone through mental illness feels like. You can’t pull them out. You can only keep showing up, keep lowering the rope, keep believing they’ll eventually reach for it.
The pit feels safer than the climb—I know that darkness. Nowhere left to fall. The fear isn’t just of staying down there; it’s of hoping and then failing to make it out. It’s of being too heavy, too broken, too far gone.
But love doesn’t measure weight when it’s reaching through the grave.
Crafting Tenderness
Musically, this needed to be stripped back. No heavy production, no overwhelming arrangements. Just acoustic guitar, soft djembe, and space between the phrases. Room to breathe. Room to feel.
I wanted two distinct vocal perspectives—the deep, raspy folk vocal for the person holding the rope (steady, unconditional, patient), and a soft female whisper for the person in the pit (vulnerable, raw, barely able to speak).
The Zulu phrases became the turning point. “Bamba intambo, ngiyeza kuwe” (Hold the rope, I’m coming to you). “Akukho wedwa, ngiyakubona” (You’re not alone, I see you). Simple. Direct. A lifeline in language.
The rap verse came from the voice of someone who survived their own pit—urgent, empowering: “Somebody held a line when I couldn’t see my hands / Now I’m telling you: that rope is real, so take the stand.”
The Slow Climb
Here’s what makes this song different from typical “you’ll be okay” bullshit: there’s no instant breakthrough. Recovery isn’t a light switch. It’s fingers slowly closing around a line. It’s one breath, one pull, one moment at a time.
“Siyakhula kancane, siyakhanya” (We rise slowly, we shine). Not “you’re healed now.” Not “just think positive.” Slowly. Together. With someone who refuses to let go even when you can’t feel their grip yet.
The final chorus shows the shift—not victory, but momentum. “I feel your grip inside of mine.” Connection restored. The climb has begun.
What It Means Now
I can’t listen to this song without getting caught in my throat. It reminds me of the people who held the rope for me when I couldn’t see anything but walls. And it reminds me of the times I’ve held it for others.
Mental health struggles are isolating as hell. But this song is proof that presence matters. Showing up matters. Being the steady voice that keeps calling through the darkness—it matters.
The Universal Thread
If you’re in the pit right now, know this: the rope is real. You’re not too heavy. You’re not too broken. Someone is holding the line with bleeding hands because you’re worth it.
If you’re the one holding the rope, keep lowering it. Keep showing up. Your love is reaching even when they can’t feel it yet. Don’t let go.
We rise slowly. We shine together.
Listen to “Love’s Rope” and remember: you’re not alone in the darkness.
From the album Ancient Roads
