Micae Finds Strength in Stillness on Her EP ‘For The Record’

In a world obsessed with gloss and filters, Micae reminds us that there’s something powerful about leaving the edges rough. The Vancouver-based singer-songwriter and music therapist delivers a deeply human listening experience with her new EP, For The Record, an intimate, unvarnished reflection on grief, love, and the long road back to self-understanding.

Written in the wake of a love that ended before it truly began, For The Record feels like a quiet reckoning. Micae doesn’t dramatize the heartbreak; she studies it. Each lyric sits with the ache, tracing how loss can both fracture and fortify. “He showed me what was possible in love in a way I hadn’t experienced before,” she shares, “and that made losing him feel unbearable at times. I had to learn how to hold my own feelings when the person I wanted most could not.”

Instead of retreating into silence, Micae recorded For The Record in her bedroom with longtime collaborators Matt DeSimone (guitar) and Jadhé (production). The songs were tracked live, one mic in the center of the room, one take at a time. The imperfections stayed, the moments of breath and hesitation left intact. That rawness became the project’s emotional backbone.

“After a lifetime of chasing perfection to feel worthy of love, it was refreshing to put stock into something that was bound to be imperfect,” she explains. “This EP is a way of honouring my artistry, choosing authenticity over polished marketability.”

From the tender ache of “Blackberries” to the hushed vulnerability that threads through every track, For The Record captures the sound of someone learning to coexist with loss rather than fix it. It’s music that trusts the listener to feel, not to rush past the pain, but to sit in it, breathe, and recognize themselves in it.

“I hope listeners feel the power of sitting with complexity,” Micae says. “There’s a quiet strength in that patience.” With her grounding blend of indie folk-rock and folk-pop, Micae joins the ranks of artists like Adrianne Lenker, Lucy Dacus, and Julien Baker, who make honesty feel radical.

You mentioned that “For The Record” came from a place of grief and reflection. Was there a specific moment when you realized you needed to turn that pain into music?

When I first wrote the songs, it didn’t feel like I had much of a choice! There were days when the pain felt almost unbearable, and writing helped me survive it. I remember weeks when I felt completely disconnected from myself, then life would wake me up. I’d have a big cry and feel the urge to record myself playing and singing nonsense. Often it would stay nonsense, but sometimes, something weird would happen. Fully formed songs would just pour out all at once – like “for the record”, the title track. I didn’t change any of the lyrics from when I first improvised them to when I released them. It felt like the song already existed somewhere, and I was just uncovering it. The decision to release the tracks as an EP was made when I felt strong enough to share what I loved and what I lost. I didn’t want to keep carrying it on my own anymore, and putting something tangible into the world felt like reclaiming some agency.

Recording live with one mic in your bedroom is such an intentional choice. What did that raw setup reveal about your sound or yourself that a studio couldn’t?

Recording with my simple at-home setup removed the comfortable safety net of doing everything “by the book”. It forced me to experiment, to trust myself, and to trust my collaborators. I’m really glad we decided to record the EP that way, and we had a ton of fun with it, too. I think it ultimately helped me find a more grounded, authentic sound. I didn’t have to dress it up to feel proud of it. You talk about perfectionism and learning to let go. How did that shift impact not just this EP, but the way you see your artistry moving forward? I think it was a crucial shift for me to make to help strengthen my resiliency as an artist. I used to attach a lot of weight to outcomes that measured my success. The problem with that is that if I made a mistake, I couldn’t shake it. And if I did well at something, I couldn’t quite feel it in my body. Coming from a classical voice training background, it’s very easy to get caught up in technique and get away from the heart of your voice. I realized to make the kind of music I want to make and be the kind of artist I want to be, I had to learn how to lead with my heart. It’s not an easy world to do that in! There’s always going to be people who don’t see or value what you’re sharing. By accepting that, I get closer to accepting myself (the good, the bad, the in-between). I think that makes it easier to try, face rejection, and trust in my ability to improve. I used to think if I loved myself, I wouldn’t get better. Now, I don’t see any other way.

As a music therapist, you have a unique relationship with emotion and sound. How do those two worlds of therapy and songwriting intersect for you?

I feel lucky to have a career that nurtures patience and presence when it comes to making music. Every day that I go into work, my job is to help folks make sense of themselves and the world around them through music. I focus on both the process of making music and the product. The process matters a lot - it’s where our stories and emotions live. The music is simply how we hold them and share them. I think my work helps me slow down and sit with myself with the same patience I’d offer my clients. I couldn’t write anything that I felt all that good about until I learned how to do that. I’m a better music therapist because I write songs, and I’m a better songwriter because of my work as a music therapist.

If someone listens to “For The Record” alone in their room late at night, what do you hope they walk away feeling or understanding about themselves?

I hope it opens up some more space in themselves to hold contradictions. People are complex. We can be so many things at once, and that is both terrifying and liberating. Terrifying, because how can you really know yourself if you’re always changing? Liberating, because it means you’re never really stuck for too long. We can grow, adapt, and embrace the messiness of being human. We just have to be brave enough to look in the mirror and be honest with ourselves.