It had been a hard week. She was in middle school, so those hard weeks happened a lot. You remember how it was. My songwriter and I sat in my studio, processing what could make bullies and mean girls treat other people with such ugliness.

“It isn’t you, you know,” I said, in a pause. She looked up. “These girls who are mean, or anyone who is cruel, it happens because they don’t feel good enough. You are confident and kind and smart and they’re trying to tear you down because they feel insecure about themselves.”

She shrugged and looked at the table. “Yeah, that’s what Mom said.” Her finger traced concentric circles on the mahogany surface, and she sighed heavily.

I waited. “You know what I do when people treat me badly?”

“No. what?”

“I picture their faces and take a deep breath—then I breathe out and them well. I wish them happiness. I wish for an end to their pain so that they stop wanting to cause me pain.”

She studied me. The circles grew. “Does that work?” She asked finally.

“I don’t know that it changes them, but it keeps their pain from burrowing into me, and it keeps me from wanting to hurt them back. So yeah, it works.”

She nodded. We were silent a moment.

“Do you want to sing about it?” I ventured.

“Yeah, ok.” She got up from her spot on the floor and climbed into the big leather armchair, and I pulled out the ukulele and began to strum a progression

“You like these chords?” I asked.

She nodded approval and snuggled deep into the chair, looking at her fingers thoughtfully.

“Whenever you’re ready,” I said softly, “Just sing and see what comes.”

And she began to sing in the freeform way that was so unique to her creative flow, melodies and verses nearly intact, full of beauty and innocence and childlike hope.

When she finished, my heart was full. The energy in the room was light, still resonating from the final chorus:

I set down my instrument. She was smiling.

I don’t know if the bullies stopped being bullies, but I knew she was going to be ok.