“Good morning everyone! My name is Kaitlyn and I am so excited to be here with you all on this fine Tuesday...I’m going to sing you a song. If you know the words, feel free to sing along or just move to the music. It’s by an artist who most you probably know named Elvis Presley...and it has a little something to do with love.”

Now in the second year of my music therapy internship at the University of Toronto, that introduction is one I’ve given many times at a practicum placement in long-term care. I can still remember that first morning last September like it was yesterday. After the temperature checks and the Covid tests we made our way through the winding halls to a back room. Residents were gathered in a circle playing games, patiently waiting for their next activity to start. Now I’ve been in long-term care homes before, probably more times than I can count. But never on this side. Never like this. A new music therapy intern, here to help and learn.

I have two grandmothers with Alzheimer’s Disease so it probably wasn’t a surprise to anyone that I ended up here. As I witnessed the deterioration of my loved ones firsthand, I also experienced the profound influence that music continued to have in their lives. On the most difficult days, music continues to be our sole form of communication. When I play songs that remind them of their loved ones, their favorite Italian opera singer or the nursery rhymes they used to sing to me as a child, it sparks a connection between us, even if just for a moment.

At that time in my life, I was completing a Bachelor of Music at the University of Toronto, and if I’m being honest, I struggled. I was in a constant state of stress, anxiety and fear, worried that I would never be enough as a musician. All the stress and pressure I had put on myself to succeed as a musician had tainted my relationship with music and my ability to share it with others. The thing that I had once loved, was no longer a source of joy, but a source of pain.

Towards the end of my degree I discovered music therapy. Bev Foster even came to one of my classes to talk about Room 217 and her story. New to the world of music and health, I decided to jump in headfirst and apply for a masters in neurologic music therapy.

From that first day of school I was in love, but I was also terrified. Terrified of making a mistake, terrified of making the wrong decision. The stakes seemed higher now. The music seemed to matter more now. All those insecurities that had become second nature during my undergraduate degree started to build up again, until one day I noticed they weren’t there anymore.

Each time I worked with a client, that fear, anxiety and uncertainty started to chip away. As I learned about their families, their careers and their passions I began to share in their successes and they shared in mine. I developed relationships with others like I’d never known. Relationships that made saying goodbye at the end of the year oh so difficult.

After months of working with others, I still hadn’t played for my own grandmothers. And if I’m being honest, it’s because I was scared. While I often sang along to recorded music with them, I had never accompanied myself on an instrument. This year I played music for all sorts of people. Why couldn’t I just play music for the people in my life? For the ones in my life who needed it the most?

A couple of months ago I played for one of my grandmother’s in long-term care. Just us and my guitar. Finding music therapy not only allowed me to help others, but it helped me find myself again. To find my voice, my passion and the love I have for sharing my musical gifts with others. It reminded me why I even chose to pursue music in the first place. My grandmother doesn’t care if I play a wrong note or if I sound a little flat. She just cares that I’m there. She cares that I’m with her and for a moment, it’s just us. And even though she has lost the ability to use her words and she hasn’t remembered who I am in a very long time, I know that she loves and cherishes this time together. I watch her foot tap to the music, I feel her hands squeeze mine, and I know she is with me.

At the end of every visit I always ask her for a kiss. I bring my cheek to her face and say “Dammi un bacio?” She kisses me every time.

All I ever wanted to do was to make people happy with music. I wanted them to experience the same love and joy that music brought to my life. So as I enter my final year of study to become a neurologic music therapist, these are the things that I will keep with me. When those fears and insecurities try to creep in, I will remind myself of where I came from and where I’m going. I will remind myself of the people I am doing this for. Myself. My loved ones. The people I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting yet. There’s a lot of things to be scared of, but helping others with music like it has helped me, isn’t one of them. At least not anymore.

Room 217 was part of my journey to becoming a music therapist. To this day I still have the pamphlet Bev handed out in that class. Her story inspired me. It reminded me why I wanted to use music to help others.

It can be difficult to help our loved ones, to know where to start, especially when it comes to using music. The beauty of Room 217 is that it gives us that starting place, guides and supports us as we gain confidence with music in care.

So wherever you are in your journey, know that it’s never too late to start to incorporate music into your life, your care visits. While you may or may not become a music therapist, all of us can access music as a means of care for ourselves and others.

For more information on becoming a music therapist, visit the Canadian Association of Music Therapists www.musictherapy.ca.