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When she’s eight, Julie likes singing with her mum. She belts lyrics out, sing-shouting at the top of her lungs, and she presses the ivory keys of the piano, singing each note in harmony. Already, she knows that there’s a time for singing perfectly and trying your best, and there’s a time when you sing as loud as you can, delighting in shared laughter and grins.
When she’s eight, Julie stands in front of her music class, hands pressed together behind her back, and sings a song. She thinks she’s done well and when she looks at her teacher, he’s wearing a pitying expression. “You’re going to have to be better than that to make it anywhere,” he tells her. “You’re never going to get anywhere like that.”
It’s the first time someone dares tell Julie that she’s not good enough as she is. It won’t be the last time.
All around the world, there are people telling little girls that they aren’t good enough, aren’t right, aren’t ever going to make it. All around the world, there are stories of heroes rising up above, and they are white and male, and Julie is neither of those things. All around the world, there is the same story being beaten into the bones of girls everywhere—you do not rise, you do not lift your chin, you just bow your head and say ‘okay’.
All around the world, there’s a movement that’s been growing for centuries. All around the world, there are people daring to make new heroes, rewrite old stories. All around the world, there’s a new story being whispered—lift your chin, hold their gaze, dare to say no.
At nine, Julie finds Flynn—or maybe Flynn finds her, it’s hard to say. They crash into each other by accident, falling over into the dirt that covers their uniforms and their hands and their already-grazed knees.
Flynn grins, gap-toothed, and says, “Hi.”
And Julie, smiles back, and says, “Hey!”
Their friendship isn’t born then. No, it’s born later when they’re pulling themselves out of the dirt and a boy sees them. He turns up his nose. “Girls shouldn’t be dirty.”
“You don’t know many girls then,” Julie says, turning up her own nose.
Flynn, on the other hand, is not so refined, just raises a fist and says, “Girls can be whatever they want!”
The boy does not seem willing to stick around after that, and quickly returns to his group of friends, soccer ball now retrieved. For him, nothing will have changed and he won’t even remember the day.
Julie and Flynn won’t remember the day either, but their lives will have been changed forever. It’s the start of their friendship, after all, something that will see them through the years until they are old and grey, and still giggling at one another and falling over in the dirt with grubby hands and grazed knees.
“I’m going to be a musician,” Julie says when she is twelve and they’re talking about what career they might have when they’re older.
Beside her, Flynn immediately says, “Ooh, I can see that!”
Their teacher, however, just sighs, and hands Julie a new piece of paper. “We’re talking about realistic careers here, Julie. Not dream careers. Write something else down please.”
The teacher moves on and Julie is left staring down at the blank spot next to ‘Career’. She doesn’t understand, how can she? She’s twelve and wants to be a musician, and people have tried to tell her no before, tried to tell her its impossible, but her parents say otherwise and Flynn says otherwise and-
And, for the first time, Julie begins to wonder if they’re wrong and the rest of the world is the one in the right here.
When Julie’s fourteen, Carrie gets sent home for wearing makeup. And, well, Carrie isn’t really Julie’s friend because Carrie is kind of mean and is Julie’s opposite—blonde and good at maths and likes dancing. But she sees the way Carrie’s face falls, how the teacher looks away like he can’t see, and Julie wonders why.
At lunch, she talks to Flynn who talks to Kayla who talks to someone else, and soon enough, everyone’s agreed on a plan of action.
The next day, Carrie walks into school without makeup. Every other girl in her year, however, is wearing makeup. Together, they stare down the teacher as he stutters and waves his hands, before giving up. Carrie sniffles and smiles. Julie high-fives Flynn.
They don’t know it yet, but this is a power they all hold in their hands.
Little girls grow into women, but more often than not they’re still called girls. Julie grows older, passes birthdays blowing out candles, and people still tell her that she’s trying for the impossible.
“Most musicians don’t make it big.”
“You’re too smart to waste your life on something that’ll never happen.”
“Girls like you don’t become stars.”
“It’s impossible.”
“Unrealistic.”
“A ridiculous idea.”
“Unattainable.”
“Never going to happen.”
“Hopeless.”
But here’s the thing: people say a lot of things and that doesn’t make them true. The only way to find out if something’s impossible is to try and find out.
And so Julie tries. She writes songs, practices her instruments, sings to the best of her ability and then works harder. She dares the world to tell her no—and the world does tell her no, but Julie only lifts her chin and asks again.
Maybe she gets lucky, maybe she’s talented, maybe it’s just hard work—she becomes a musician. It doesn’t matter how she does it. Except, no, that’s not right. It does matter. It matters because people will say she’s lucky, will say she’s talented, will say that she was an underdog once upon a time. They will all be wrong because Julie became a musician because she tried and kept trying even after she failed, because she never gave up on an impossible dream, because she lifted her chin and told the world ‘No, I want something else’.
“Tell us about your latest album,” an interviewer says to her, when she’s only twenty-four and already has two albums under her belt. “It’s called Impossible Dreams, isn’t it?”
Julie smiles, perhaps with more teeth than one could expect, but it goes unmentioned. “It is,” she agrees. “It’s been out for little over a week now, which is exciting. It’s been a lot of hard work.”
“You’ve had a lot of people talking about this album. It’s received a bit more criticism than your past albums, hasn’t it?”
Shrugging, Julie says, “Everything’s bound to receive some form of criticism. For the most part though, people aren’t criticising the song itself, they’re criticising the message behind it. They don’t like what I’m saying, don’t like the fact it doesn’t fit into their neat boxes.” She smiles, thinking about how hard she’s worked on this album, each lyric she’s slaved over, each note she’s perfected. People are talking about the album, and all she thinks is ‘Good’.
“Do you want to expand on that?” The interviewer asks raising an eyebrow. “It seems like you’ve got a strong opinion on it.”
With a hum, Julie taps a finger against her knee. She thinks of her father, on the phone, telling her that it’s always been her choice. She thinks about her brother, grinning fiercely through her laptop screen, telling her to fuck ‘em up. She thinks of Flynn, eyes dancing, as she says to do whatever she wants and know that she doesn’t have to do this.
Julie thinks about a little girl being told of an impossible dream. She thinks about girls all around the world being told to be do more, to be better, to cut themselves down to fit a shape that’s not them. She thinks about all the people out there like her, wondering if there’s a hero like them in the stories, worrying that they’re wrong because no one like them exists.
“Impossible Dreams is a rebellious idea for some people,” Julie says, grinning fierce. “Not only does it include tracks like ‘Pride’ that explores my experience as a bisexual woman, but it’s ‘I Dare’ that I think really has people talking.”
“Okay, well, I think there are two things to talk about there. We might as well start with ‘Pride’. You’ve been out as bisexual for two years now, just before your second album was released. I’m sure you’ve fielded questions like this before, but I must ask, was there any reason in particular that you came out then?”
This is a question that Julie has been asked time and time again. It’s not that she hates it or any such thing, but the answer is far from easy.
Some people have claimed that she came out as a publicity stunt, which is so far from true that Julie laughs at the idea of doing such a thing. Others have claimed she did it to explain some of the messages behind her second album, which isn’t technically true either. At twenty-two, Julie had been anxious and unsure. Flynn had assured her, time and time again, that she didn’t have to come out, that she should could just live her life as she wanted, and let people make their assumptions and judgements.
Coming out hadn’t been a deal-breaker, but it could’ve been. Artists have come out before to the face of controversy, have lost deals and record labels. And Julie, only just starting her career, had a lot to lose. And yet, she’d made the decision anyway and hadn’t regretted it for a second.
“Because there had to be other little girls like me, queer and a POC, who didn’t know it was okay to be both of those things,” Julie says at last. “And because I wanted to be true to me and didn’t want to hide it. In the end, that’s all there is to it. Actually, funnily enough, ‘Pride’ is sort of about that—being true to myself, but it’s also about the need to come out. It was inspired by one of the things that Flynn tells me frequently about how we’re not required to come out, that we shouldn’t have to, that it’s okay to just be. A lot of people aren’t as lucky as me and don’t have a friend like Flynn, so I figured I should try to get that message out there a bit more.”
“And what a beautiful message it is,” the interviewer replies, nothing insincere in their tone, and Julie smiles at them. “Now, let’s talk about ‘I Dare’ which has gathered quite a bit of attention. For those of you who don’t know, ‘I Dare’ has gained quite a bit of criticism around its blatant tone that encourages rebellion and revolt. Simultaneously, it’s become quite an anthem around the world, hasn’t it?”
Julie grins. “It has! I’m pretty proud of the song and although I was prepared for the criticism it would incur, I wasn’t prepared for the love it would receive. ‘I Dare’ is probably my favourite song on the album, and definitely comes back to the title Impossible Dreams too.”
“Now, Julie, correct me if I’m wrong, but this song is quite a feminist song, isn’t it?” Julie nods, and the interviewer then continues, “The song itself calls for everyone to look around them, and identify the flaws and problems in the institutes surrounding them, before stepping up and calling such things out.”
“Kind of,” Julie says. “I mean, that’s certainly one interpretation of it, though it’s not the only one. Personally, I was actually meaning the song to be less of a call-to-arms and more of a you-can-do-it sort of song. If that makes sense?”
The interviewer hums. “How did you mean the chorus in that case? ‘Lift your chin, meet their eyes, stand up and prepare to fight. Open your mouth, call them out, it’s time to say I dare you.’ That manages to pack quite a punch in only a few lines, but it does seem closer to a call-to-arms than anything else in my opinion.”
“It definitely does sound that way,” Julie agrees, “but this song also works to remind everyone that life has pushed down that they can do it. When I was younger, I was told on multiple occasions that I would never make it in life as a musician. It was, most people agreed, an impossible dream. I was lucky in that my family and Flynn supported me the whole way and always encouraged me on, but it can be really tough to stand up to the world and say ‘I dare you to try and knock me down’.”
Pausing, Julie thinks before slowly saying, “When I was younger and at school, there was a girl sent home for wearing makeup. And like, we were only students, what could we do? We couldn’t fight the system or change the rules, and it was just so upsetting to see this girl sent home for something that didn’t even matter in the grand scheme of things. Except, we’d forgotten that we weren’t really alone. That day, me and the rest of the girls decided to all come to school tomorrow wearing makeup.”
“Did the rules change?” The interviewer asks, leaning forward slightly.
Julie shakes her head, but she smiles. “We didn’t. Instead, we ensured that the rule was no longer followed. They couldn’t send all of us home and they couldn’t ignore us either. Sure, maybe nothing changed, but the girl came to school that day and smiled. Because, ultimately, we’re stronger together than we are apart. ‘I Dare’ is all about daring to try, daring to stand up, daring to be more than everyone says you can be.” She shrugs. “In that way, it’s about fighting the system and it definitely is a song that encourages rebellion. But it’s a needed rebellion and we need to talk more about the issues that plague girls in schools and others disadvantaged by society in general. These issues are already being discussed; I just added my voice to the growing chorus.”
When Julie is eight, she likes singing. It’s one of her favourite things to do, whether that’s shouting along to the song or trying to sing it properly. She loves music, loves hearing the ringing notes of the piano, listening to her parents play and sing.
When she’s eight, someone tells her that she won’t be a singer, that she can’t be, that she’s not good enough. She’s only a child, only a girl, with wobbling lips and watery eyes.
When she’s eight, her parents pick her up and spin her around and tell her that she can be anything. The system is made to contain her, to squash her down, to cut off parts they think don’t suit women. But here’s the thing, the world is wrong about a lot of things—including this.
It’s the first time someone tells her that she can do it and that she deserves better, that they all do. It’s the beginning of a story that thousands and millions of other girls hear. It’s a story that Julie will always carry with her—and one she’ll tell countless more times.