This one… I feel more than I analyze.

Tems. Her voice doesn’t just sound beautiful, it lands in your body. It’s grounded, honest, and unperformative. She’s not trying to impress you; she’s just telling her truth. And you feel it.

From the very first lines—“Five in the morning / I wake up to fight for my earnings”—you can feel the exhaustion. Not dramatic, but life-tired. That sense of waking up already in survival mode.

Then:“The fear in my mind is a warning”“The noise in my mind wouldn’t leave me”

This is it. The whole struggle isn’t life or people—it’s the noise. The mind that never quiets, that never stops.

Tems doesn’t pretend to be okay:“I try to be fine but I can’t be”Simple. Honest. Human.

Every line reminds me of the fight it takes just to exist:“All these thoughts have troubled me / Fighting to give up my pain / Fighting to be on my lane”…because even when it’s time to live, your mind can’t always follow.

And the chorus hits like a quiet revelation:“I really need time now / I need a free mind now”

It’s not a request for success or love. It’s a request for space. For peace. For release. A reminder that peace isn’t something you can buy or perform your way into. You have to create space for it.

By the end:“I might be falling deep…”,there’s no resolution. No neat ending. Just presence. Just being in it. And that’s why I love this track. It doesn’t push you. It sits with you.

Maybe this is the moment I stop rushing my own becoming. Maybe the lesson is simple: slow down, build it right, and just listen to Tems.

In this episode, I unpack a tension I’ve carried for years: the desire for intensity, movement, and beginnings—while also craving slowness, depth, and deliberate creation. Therapy, astrology, and music helped me realize something simple: I’m not inconsistent. I just never allowed both sides of myself to coexist.

We explore what it means to:

Slow down without losing momentum; Choose deeply which ideas to nurture; Build projects that last, not just impress; Translate contradictions into power.

Tems’ Free Mind sets the tone: a gentle reminder that creation doesn’t need to be loud, urgent, or optimized. Sometimes, meaning comes from slowing down, listening to your rhythm, and letting your fire light something on purpose.

This episode is for anyone who feels torn between intensity and stillness, ambition and patience, fire and depth. Let’s explore how slowing down can actually help us start living fully.

Credits :

Written by: A fire-and-water soul learning to balance speed with stillness

Produced by: Therapy, astrology charts, and late-night reflections

Executive Producers: Overthinking, contradictions, and a stubborn desire to create deeply

Mixed & Mastered by: Stellium in Capricorn & intentional patience

Special Track: “Free Mind” — Tems (because some things are meant to be slow and felt)

This song is not about detachment.

It’s about desperation wrapped in pride.

From the first hook, the emotional structure is clear:

“Either you down or you ain’t / You either riding or you can’t.”

That isn’t softness.That’s binary loyalty.

Philosophically, it frames love as allegiance — not intimacy.There is no slow unfolding here. No ambiguity. No nuance.

It’s: are you in or not?

And that tells us something important.

When someone fears instability, they reduce love to yes-or-no terms.Complexity becomes threatening.Certainty becomes safety.

Then comes the crack in the armor:

“You told me I could trust you, don’t lie / I could really use it.”“Everybody need love, even niggas like me.”

There’s pride in the persona — status, self-sufficiency, hood fame.

But underneath it is exhaustion.

“I could really use it.”

That line isn’t romantic.It’s tired.

Trust here isn’t aesthetic.It’s survival.

He’s not performing indifference.He’s negotiating how much he can afford to need.

Then this:

“So much I wanna talk about / But I ain’t got no one to talk to.”

That line dismantles the idea of strategic love as manipulation.

This isn’t control.It’s isolation.

He isn’t withholding because he’s above intimacy.He’s withholding because there is no safe container for vulnerability.

Strategic love often looks like dominance.But often, it’s just unprocessed loneliness.

And then the contradiction:

“And I know that I get rough / But I just wanna feel love sometimes.”

This is self-awareness without transformation.

He knows he’s hard to handle.He knows he pushes.He knows he guards.

But the desire underneath is simple:

I want softness too.

This is where the episode connects.

Strategic love doesn’t mean you don’t want intimacy.It means you don’t know how to access it without destabilizing yourself.

Then comes the most revealing line:

“The more I tell you, the more you wanna know / If I tell you, will you use it when I’m low?”

That is the philosophy of guarded people.

If I reveal myself, does it become ammunition?

This isn’t romantic trust.It’s informational trust.

Can I give you my weakness without you weaponizing it?

For someone who grew up feeling exposed — racialised, sexualised, watched — this lands differently.

Because you learn early:

Visibility can be dangerous.

So the real question becomes:

If I show you my interior, will you protect it?Would you love what you see?

Then my favorite contrast:

“Hood fame, everybody knows my name when I come through / But don’t nobody scream it like you.”

Public recognition versus private validation.

Status versus being seen.

Strategic love often prioritizes perception.But what he craves is singularity.

Not admiration from the crowd.One person who holds him differently.

That mirrors the shift from power over to power with.

And then the imagery:

“Swimming in deep water, save me from my sorrows.”

Now he’s not managing the emotional temperature.

He’s drowning.

And asking to be saved.

That’s not hierarchy.That’s surrender.

Philosophically, Trust is not a song about dominance.

It’s about conditional vulnerability.

It’s someone saying:

I need you.But I’m terrified of what you could do with that need.

When he repeats:

“You told me I could trust you… don’t lie.”

It almost sounds childlike.

Not seductive.Not strategic.Just afraid.

And that’s the part people miss.

That’s why I chose this track.

Because my evolution isn’t about becoming less powerful.

It’s about no longer treating vulnerability as leverage.

I ended the episode with this:

I don’t want power over you.I want power with you.And if that means I fall too — so be it.

Trust is the sound of someone who wants to fallbut needs reassurance they won’t be dropped.

And the lesson isn’t:

“Make them fall first.”

It’s:

Even if I could get leverage…I don’t want it.

I want shared risk.

That’s the difference between strategic loveand reciprocal intimacy.

Enjoy the song — and let yourself be seen.

This episode feels different.

It’s fluid. Intimate. Controlled, yes— but honest.

And ironically, it’s the first time I’m introducing myself properly. Which already says something.

The truth is: I’m not naturally good at letting people in. Not in the way people think vulnerability works. It’s not intentional. It’s automatic. A reflex.

Letting people see who I really am has always felt like risk exposure. Because, if you see me fully, you might decide I’m too much.Or worse — not lovable.

Yes. I’m working on that in therapy.

But therapy doesn’t erase history. It just helps you understand it.

So let’s begin again.

My name is Aurélie.I’m 37.I’m a mother of two — but I am a woman first. And that distinction matters to me. Because my femininity, my sensuality, my presence — they’re not aesthetic choices.They’re political.

When you grow up being told your body is “too much,” reclaiming it becomes resistance.

I’m a mixed-race woman. My mother was white. My father was Black. And mixed identity is rarely neutral.

My father was absent. I don’t know his culture deeply.I grew up mostly surrounded by white friends.

Brown skin in predominantly white spaces teaches you awareness early.You learn to read rooms before you read books.You learn to adjust your tone, your hair, your posture.You learn that belonging is conditional.

That “in-between” identity people romanticize? It’s not poetic. It’s destabilizing. Even my mother — who I love — couldn’t fully understand what I was navigating. Because racial experience cannot be imagined into empathy. It has to be lived.

So I grew up slightly translated : not fully here. Not fully there.

And then came early sexualisation.

Comments about my body before I understood what sexuality even meant.Being watched in school corridors as if my curves were public commentary. When you are racialised and sexualised at the same time, you internalize something dangerous: “Your body is visible before your voice is.”

So I built armor. A shield that says: you can see me, but you don’t get access to me.

Because access means vulnerability. And vulnerability did not feel safe.

I was told — explicitly and implicitly — that I was too much. Too visible. Too sensual. Too intense.

Now I understand something different.

I wasn’t too much. I was unseen correctly.

And when love feels unstable growing up, your nervous system adapts. This is where the real lesson begins. The lesson isn’t “don’t manipulate.” It isn’t “just be vulnerable.” That’s too simplistic.

The real lesson is : I turned love into strategy.

Not because I’m cold. But because I’m perceptive.

I read people fast.I enter their inner worlds easily.I sense emotional currents before they’re spoken.

That’s not toxicity (well,…). That’s emotional intelligence shaped by insecurity.

If they fall first, I’m safer.If they’re vulnerable first, I have leverage.If they love me first, I won’t be the one abandoned.

It creates an emotional hierarchy. And hierarchies feel safe.

So yes — I made people fall before I did.

Not consciously.Not maliciously.

But I managed the emotional temperature. Because underneath all of it was one quiet belief: I am too much. And if I fall first, I might disappear.

Therapy is teaching me something radical: I don’t need to orchestrate love to deserve it.

I don’t have to engineer depth.I don’t have to stage mystery.I don’t have to control the narrative.

Equality in vulnerability is not danger.

It’s intimacy.

And here’s the political layer again.

As a mixed-race woman sexualised early, I was taught that my power lives in perception.In how I am seen.In how I am desired.In how I affect a room.

So of course I mastered perception.Of course I mastered influence.Of course I learned how to make people feel.

But that’s power over.

And I’m learning something different now.

Power with.

Not:“I will manage the emotional temperature.”

But:“I can survive being emotionally equal.”

Not:“I will make you fall.”

But:“I can fall too.”

Strategic love asks: How do I protect myself while staying desired?

Reciprocal intimacy asks: Can I remain whole while being seen?

I don’t want power over you. I want power with you. And if that means I fall too — … so be it.

Credits

Written by: A mixed-race woman who learned to read rooms before she learned to rest

Produced by: Therapy & generational plot twists

Executive Producers: Early sexualisation (uncredited but loud)

Mixed & Mastered by: Scorpio rising & controlled vulnerability

Special Track: “Trust” — Brent Faiyaz (because everybody needs love)

When you really listen, Cheating On Me isn’t about betrayal from the outside.It’s about drifting away from yourself.

“Rolling with the tide” isn’t romantic — it’s passive.It’s what happens when practicality, comfort, and responsibility start choosing for you, until you wake up in a life you never consciously chose.

That’s what I did.I didn’t choose badly. I chose unconsciously.I built something that made sense on paper, while slowly disconnecting from my body.

When Kwabs sings “I was cheating on me,” everything becomes clear. The betrayal isn’t romantic — it’s internal. Loving someone, or a life, while quietly abandoning yourself.

This song speaks to a quiet loneliness. Not the absence of someone — but the absence of yourself, even when you’re not alone. Living well. Functioning. Holding it together. And realizing that living isn’t the same as being alive.

Track 3 is about that moment of clarity — when you understand the heartbreak wasn’t caused by another person, but by years of not listening inward.

I wasn’t cheating on love.I was cheating on me.

The next episode opens a different door : vulnerability, therapy, and letting myself be seen, slowly and consciously.

Until then, take care.And come back to yourself.

This episode isn’t really about infidelity.At least, not the kind we usually talk about.

It started with a song title that made me pause: Cheating On Me.Not cheating on you. Not cheating with someone.On me.

Kwabs’ voice is deep, almost ancestral. But when you really listen to the lyrics, something shifts. This isn’t a story about betrayal from the outside. It’s about drifting. About passivity. About the quiet ways we abandon ourselves while building lives that make sense on paper.

I talk about the moment everything cracked open — an encounter that changed nothing… and revealed everything. About choosing stability over desire. About silencing parts of myself for years. About mistaking calm for fulfillment. And about how denial, when it lasts too long, doesn’t disappear, it settles into the body.

For me, infidelity wasn’t about another person.It was about hunger.For aliveness. For desire. For a version of myself I had left behind.

Track 3 is dense, uncomfortable, and deeply honest. It’s about the moment you realize the heartbreak wasn’t caused by someone else but by the years you spent not listening to yourself.

If you’ve ever lived well but not fully alive… This episode is for you.

🎧 Listen to Cheating On Me.And see what comes back to you.

Credits:

Written by: Sleepless nights, heartbreak, and excessive self-reflection Produced by: Therapy, music, and pure stubbornness Executive Producers: That encounter & my inner storm (uninvited) Mixed & Mastered by: Intuition, Scorpio fire, and bad timing Special Features: Kwabs; Cheated On Me (because of course)

Let me say this first: good therapists are actual magicians.

You can spend your whole life trying to figure yourself out, building theories, journaling obsessively, crying into Ben & Jerry’s with a cup of hot green tea, begging the Universe for signs through dreams, symbols, astrology charts, tarot cards, whatever keeps you afloat.

Then boom.First therapy session.

Two hours of me spilling my entire life like an open suitcase on the floor.Five minutes later, she looks at me and calmly says: “This is who you are.”

Excuse me?? How?? How do they do that?

They find the words you didn’t even know you were starving for.It’s brilliant. Borderline supernatural, honestly.

And here’s the part people get wrong: therapy isn’t about fixing yourself. Or becoming someone more “acceptable,” more digestible, more socially approved. No. Stay as crazy as you are. The world desperately needs that too.

Therapy is about cutting through the fears, coping mechanisms, and layers you built to survive… so you can finally meet the person you already are underneath. The one who’s meant to shine bright like a diamond (yes, Rihanna reference. Always intentional).

You don’t lose your demons either. You just stop being their puppet.

You start catching yourself in real time. You hear the old reflex kicking in and suddenly think: “Oh look, I’m about to act like my usual—still fantastic— self-sabotaging b*tch… but wait. Why? Ah. That old wound. Got it.”

And then you stop.

Over.Done.

That’s the new you.

And the wildest part? Once you meet the real you, you start realizing what you actually want.

All those questions you never asked because your life was on autopilot : partner, kids, dog, stable job, repeat. Therapy rips that autopilot right out. It gently (or not so gently) asks: what do you want? And then dares you to build a life that answers honestly. Some truths feel terrifying in your head. In real life? Much less dramatic.

I quit my partner.My beautiful house.My job.

And I’m happier than ever… (Okay, let’s say more aligned than ever.)

Nobody hates me. And honestly? No one will ever hate you as hard as you hate yourself for not daring.

So go big.Speak your truth.Protect your sanity.

And please, don’t get sick because you were too scared to live.

Credits

Written by: Childhood absence, unspoken fears, and endless therapy notes Produced by: Therapy sessions, introspection, sleepless nights, and sarcastic humor Executive Producer: My inner child (that little wise-ass) Mixed & Mastered by: Self-awareness, clarity, and a touch of Scorpio fire Special Features: H.E.R.; Focus (on repeat during all epiphanies)

Before I even really heard the lyrics, I saw the title: Focus. I heard H.E.R.’s voice. And something in me just clicked.

The song is full of longing, of asking to be seen, to be chosen. And I realized I’ve spent too long chasing someone else’s attention. The person I really needed to focus on… was myself.

That’s what this track became for me: a mantra. Focus on me. Even when it’s hard. Even when old patterns whisper: “It’s easier to please someone else.”

Therapy is what helps you get there. Not by fixing you, but by helping you catch your patterns, notice when you’re shrinking, and consciously choose yourself. It’s quiet, messy, slow magic; the kind that teaches you how to stop bleeding from old wounds.

So breathe. Listen. Let this track remind you: the love you deserve starts with choosing you first.

Swim Good by Frank Ocean (2011) opens Therapy Mixtape because it captures an emotional state that often comes before understanding.

This isn’t a song about healing or transformation. It’s about survival, the quiet, almost invisible kind. The kind where you’re not moving toward answers or clarity, but you’re still moving. Still here.

In this track, swimming isn’t about reaching land. It’s about refusing to sink. It becomes a metaphor for carrying emotional weight and choosing motion without knowing where it leads. Not fighting. Not giving up. Just staying.

There’s a moment in life, often before therapy, before language, before insight, where you can’t explain what’s happening inside you, but your body knows. Music can meet you there. Swim Good doesn’t try to fix anything. It matches the mood. It holds the space.

Some people hear this song as dark or dangerous. And the imagery is heavy. But for many of us, darkness isn’t destructive — it’s protective. Matching the emotional weather can feel safer than forcing light.

This song lives in a liminal space. Between despair and hope. Between collapse and direction. A place that’s rarely honored, but deeply real.

Swim Good didn’t pull me out of the water. It taught me how to float until I was ready to swim somewhere. Before therapy gave me words, this song gave me rhythm.

If you’re new here: this is what Therapy Mixtape is about. Music as emotional language. Tracks as markers of inner survival. Reflections that don’t rush meaning.

If all you’re doing today is staying afloat, that’s enough.

Mid-2024 and 2025 have been my personal tsunami crush. Life smashed me into tiny pieces, and now I’m just trying to swim good (thanks, Frank Ocean — without your talent, I’d already be in hell).

I’ve spent most of my life living in my head: overthinking, overanalyzing, theorizing about love, money, self-worth, and everything in between. I charge forward like an Aries sun, crave depth and intensity like a Scorpio rising, and observe it all with the detached curiosity of an Aquarius moon. Translation? Chaos with a philosophical soundtrack. Add a Saturn return to the mix — that infamous cosmic boot camp where life strips you down and forces the lesson and suddenly everything cracks open at once. Comfort was never part of the syllabus.

That’s where therapy came in. Expensive, humbling, occasionally hilarious therapy. Each session costs me 70 euros, so instead of hoarding the wisdom, I decided to recycle it. I suffer, I pay, and you get the summary notes for free. You’re welcome.

This mixtape was born there — in the mess. X tracks. X lessons. Each one a moment of revelation, a vulnerable snapshot of learning how to notice patterns, trust intuition, loosen old wounds, and reclaim personal power. My biggest one? Rejection. That shadow that followed me for years is finally starting to lose its grip, one session at a time. And that feels huge.

This isn’t a how-to guide. It’s not enlightenment packaged neatly with a bow. It’s a map of my personal chaos. A journal of vulnerability. A manual for laughing at yourself while you figure things out. Because the truth is, we’re more alike than we pretend: messy, flawed, self-sabotaging in familiar ways. Same themes, different actors.

So here’s the invitation: listen, read, reflect. Laugh, dance, maybe cry a little. Let this mixtape be a companion on your own journey. Remember, your body knows. Your heart knows. Your mind is clever, but your inner compass? That’s the real genius.

Welcome to my therapy mixtape.Press play. Let’s swim.

Album Credits

Title: Therapy MixtapeArtist: Aurélie Mboule

All tracks written by: Sleepless nights, heartbreaks, fucked up situationships, Saturn returns, and one overactive Aquarius Moon (i.e : overanalysing) Produced by: Life itself : messy, relentless, and oddly poetic Executive Producer: My higher self (she was late but she showed up) Mixed & Mastered by: Therapy, long walks, and playlists on repeat Vocals: My inner child (sometimes screaming, sometimes singing) Featuring: Ex-lovers, rejection wounds, infidelity, unpretty mirrors, body wisdom, and money lessons that refused to quit Special Thanks To: My therapist (a goddess), Astrology (for making me feel less crazy), my girlfriends (for insisting I’m beautiful even when I didn’t believe it), my kids (beautiful mirrors) and music (for being the language my heart understands before my head does.) Recorded at: Every city and shoulder I cried on, every room I laughed in, every place I finally chose myself — mostly in my shower and bed, when I was too tired to give a f*ck.