Days, weeks, even months after losing Justin, I found myself in a deep hole and felt defeated to the point that I was ready to give up on who I was. I had always looked to my future with a bit of fear, but who doesn’t! While it’s natural to fear the unfamiliar, I always figured I’d have my partner to help carry the torch. Besides playing music, Justin had fifty plus guitar students and was the primary breadwinner. Now it was only me and I was terrified! Here I was with a newborn baby and I’d lost my career, steady income, husband, and home of my own (I immediately left that home we had made together and would never return).
Our Album cover for our first and only full-length album Make Believe
At the time, I decided I would never sing, pick up a guitar, or set foot on any stage ever again. This decision wasn’t even something to think about, it was instantaneous. Performing music now represented my life taken from me and I wanted nothing to do with it. After playing music with Justin for over ten years, I couldn’t possibly imagine continuing in his absence. Justin and I were much more than each other’s spouse. In addition to being best friends, lovers, and soulmates, we were business and creative partners. On the performing end, my role was to book gigs, handle money, and mostly pick material. Justin’s role was to manage band members, handle equipment/sound system, as well as plan our sets. When it came to writing and recording I wrote the lyrics and melodies. Justin wrote the music and recorded everything (besides lead vocals and drums). We collaborated on arrangements as well as gave input in all other areas. We were a well-oiled machine and had mastered our craft. Over time, we worked up from scummy bars (paying next to nothing) to opening for festivals and getting top dollar at casinos. We’d also written our first full-length album and spent over a year recording, getting it produced, and making a pretty awesome music video. These were all major accomplishments for us and we were extremely proud.
Ultimately, I had invested over ten years in our music brand and POOF it was gone. I was completely broken and as I saw it, done! I couldn’t even listen to music for four or five months. It made me want to vomit. The 
very thing I’d always loved was now something I loathed. However, for some reason people started asking me (only weeks after) if I would ever sing again. They would assure me that I was too talented to give it up and Justin would want me singing again. I wanted to hear nothing of it. I can honestly say I was so certain I would never sing again that I would have sold my voice on the black market to the highest bidder and never looked back. “I only did it for Justin”, I would tell people, “He loved it more than I did”. And while I still believe that second statement to be true (Justin lived and breathed playing guitar), I would soon learn that I also loved it all on my own.
It had been close to eight months when I found myself feeling an urge I hadn’t experienced in a while. Compare it to someone who had been a smoker and quit cold turkey. They haven’t smelled a cigarette in almost a year when out of the blue someone lights up in their presence. To their surprise, they find themselves craving a cigarette and start smoking 
again. I understand this may not be the case with all smokers or whatever brings you a high (not talking about drugs here). Performing was always something I found myself constantly wanting more of. I considered myself a workaholic and wanted to feel the “high” as much as possible. Justin and I were one in the same and it worked to our advantage because once again, we were together. So how could I possibly crave this when it was the very thing that united us? Did it mean I would be forgetting about him if I pursued it on my own? Could I even enjoy it without him? These (along with many others) were thoughts and questions racing through my head at any given moment. The sheer fact that I had the urge to find out was shocking to me, but I felt I had to know for sure.
Justin and I performing with two of my current band mates
“You’re up next Jess”, a voice called to me from backstage. It was my friend Justin Pepin letting me know it was about time to sing for the first time in almost a year. My hands shook the entire ride over and my anxiety was through the roof. The fear in the pit of my stomach ran much deeper than nerves alone. I’ve been performing in front of crowds for years, this was nothing new. But was it? For the first time in over ten years, I was walking on that stage alone. The entire evening leading up to this very moment felt like a strange dream. The kind of dream you have when you can’t seem to run or keep tripping over the same uneven sidewalk. Getting glammed up for the evening started off my eerily familiar night. Deciding what to wear, if my eyeliner was even, what time to leave, and so many other things I always got his opinion on had thrown me for a loop. I soon realized that every single decision for that night was mine alone. I no
Performing in The Keys at Sloppy Joes
longer had my partner in crime to discuss the events of the evening, whether good or bad. No more complaining to one another about an empty tip jar and less than enthusiastic crowd. This was always made better by having my partner to confide in, knowing “he gets it”.
Walking on stage for the first time was even stranger than I could have imagined. Not only was I singing a song I’d sang with Justin, but it was one of our favorites. The signature guitar riff wailed into my ears like a beautiful poem stabbing me through the heart. It felt so good, yet so painful all at once. I remember looking back at Justin Pepin before starting the first verse and the expression on his face said it all. “IS THIS REALLY HAPPENING?”
My first time back in action
I could tell that not only was it weird for him (he’d always frequented our shows), but both magical and heartbreaking all rolled into one. Although I’d taken major steps in my first year of widowhood, this felt like I’d crossed a bridge. The Golden Gate Bridge, nonetheless. Being on stage in that moment, I realized something I will never forget, “I can do this on my own”. Grasping something like this is exhilarating and gut-wrenching all at once. Exhilarating because I was understanding a few things about myself. I’m an individual, I’m strong, I actually love this, and hey, I’m pretty good at it!! I’d always known I loved to sing but figured it was something that came easy to me and, “since we can do this together, why not”. Never in a million years would I have thought I would 
be able to do it as an individual and still love it with all my heart. The gut wrenching side was a little less easy. Because I’m able to do it on my own, I felt like I was leaving Justin behind. To me, leaving him behind represented turning my back on 
him. Even though I know this will never be the case, I still feel guilt when I start to heal in certain areas. Music was the biggest part of our relationship and to continue without him still feels unnatural. But what I’ve come to realize instead (and have to remind myself every time I perform) is that I’m not leaving him behind. In fact, leaving him behind would mean turning my back on music forever. My connection to music will always have a direct line to Justin Ayers. It’s one of the best ways I can sense his spirit and know he is still with me. The pain may never subside, but it will always be welcome when it brings me so close to him.
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