Cherie McCabe is a Louisiana native and mother of two—soon to be three. She is the frontwoman and songwriter behind the alternative/trip-hop project loucey, which released its debut album participation trophy wife last year.
CREATION STORIES
I’m seated in the comfiest armchair in our living room. Laptop out. Hair is brushed—not mine, my daughter’s—and yogurt is cleared off the counters—not mine, my son’s. They are off to school, and I’m off to something. Cursor blinking, prompt at the top of the screen. On creating art while raising kids.
On a morning like today, hurried and scattered, it may as well be like asking how to make the impossible feel possible. And right when my mind starts to quiet, there’s a firm kick from my lower abdomen. Hello there, third child of mine. We’ll be meeting you in a few weeks.
Growing Up
Ever since I could read, call it first grade or so, I was devouring books. As you devour books, repeatedly, whole, with no hesitancy, you find yourself wanting to write. And once you start writing, you never really stop.
Young, elementary school me was devouring books while also finding a singing voice. My dad’s tape deck was a favorite toy, pressing that bold, red “Record” button and seeing what melodies came from my mind. It was child’s play. It was joy. The kind of feeling you could chase after your whole life.
Songwriting, and the desire to play my own music in front of people, came naturally as I picked up a guitar at age 14. I was writing about the big feelings of high school—the friends, the loves, the trivialities. Pop culture was celebrating the rise of the female singer-songwriter—Feist, Michelle Branch, Vanessa Carlton—and I wanted in. I’d sit on the patterned bedspreads of dear friends, strumming chords and giving us all something to sing along to.
I found bandmates. I learned what it felt like to be in a studio and—more formally than before—hear your own voice back in your headphones, so personal and real. I could pull thoughts out of my head and they felt tangible. I could conquer them. I moved from Lafayette to New Orleans for college. I played the venues. I toured in a minivan. Projects ended, projects began. Music was a golden, liquid thread—lifegiving—but a part of me I’d sometimes tuck away from curious colleagues and acquaintances as I got a Day Job, because it almost meant too much. I was proud of our creations, a quiet, steady pride. I loved the work of it.
And yet, I wanted a family. I’d met The Guy. I am impatient.
Waiting on the Words
That’s how I’d find myself, a handful of years later, sending my two beautiful babies off to preschool and staring blankly at the denim blue accent wall we had painted in the house we bought, and wanting to write—having this incredible desire to give in to my own joy again after the wild, hormonal ride of two pregnancies and two postpartums—and waiting for the words to flow. And everything felt stuck.
Like a clogged drain, the fog of new motherhood and shift in identity had created some kind of residual buildup, and I wasn’t really a qualified plumber after all, but I needed to clear that part of me out and figure out how to tap in again to my own thoughts. Not the baby’s, not the toddler’s… and forget the sleep schedule and the school emails and the doctor’s appointments and the bills on the counter.
As I look back now, I realize there were three simple things that allowed me to find my way back to songwriting, two kids later. These are perhaps relevant to anyone attempting to “do it all” or to pursue something they love while being a present parent.
1. Find Someone Who Cares (Let Them)
There’s a lot of truth in having an accountability partner or two—whether you’re trying to embrace some new fitness regime, or in my case, jump back into songwriting. I’ll always call it a godsend that the friends I played with before I had my firstborn are still the friends I make music with now. And they never stopped caring. As I began to write the songs that became the building blocks for a full-length record, I leaned on my bandmates. There was the sharing of voice memos, Google Drive links to demos, inspiration playlists, podcast clips, and always the flurry of Very Dumb Memes—the kind of thing that allows you to remember you are more than Mom. Parent. Caretaker. These kinds of people are treasures. Hold on to those who uplift your creativity tightly, whether it’s a handful of internet followers, your neighbors, or your brother. Allow them to be your cheerleader.
2. Tune in to Old Habits
Pen and paper, barefoot in my lounge pants, cross-legged on a rug, unplugged guitar in my lap. Thirty quiet minutes (at minimum) with nothing on the agenda. That was my old formula from high school when my writing was at its most playful and came most naturally, and so I made it my formula again. There was some part of me that knew it had to be this way. I couldn’t squeeze in quality songwriting on my Notes app in the carpool line. I could pen fragments as I went, but the real work had to happen in a dedicated space where I could slow down time and tinker with my craft in a meaningful way. Consider the framework that existed when you first fell in love with whatever it is you do. Are you a morning person or a night person? I found that my early morning mind—a little dazed, a little more in tune with the world around me, less overwhelmed by the day’s events—was my best for writing.
3. Rush Nothing
I recognize the irony in including this only a few paragraphs below my admission that I am an impatient person. The reality is that quality art does take time and vigilance. Hours of dedicated, focused work. Those hours rarely come easily or in one sitting as a parent. And in my case, as we began to piece together an album with a vision of pressing it to vinyl, I was forced to rush nothing—despite a constant, itching desire to just finish it already. All in all, we worked on our record for four years. I think there’s a (perhaps) contrasting sentiment around putting out work as a parent-artist, where you don’t need to strive for perfection, more is more, do it for yourself, don’t get too hung up on it. If this philosophy works for you and still keeps you happy and creating, hell yeah. I couldn’t do it. If you’re the type that needs your work to be just right, if you find there is a strange fulfillment in obsessing over the details of the final product, you’re my people and that’s OK, too. Embrace the slowness and fall in love with the process.
The Culmination
Last year, my band loucey released its first full-length record participation trophy wife via Strange Daisy Records. Its 11 tracks explore the very themes I was wrestling with in my return to writing: suburban melancholia, family legacy, societal expectations, personal identity. We played a handful of special shows, and it was named a top-five New Orleans release in 2025 by ANTIGRAVITY. This chapter was the culmination of many hours spent tinkering away with my closest collaborators, and I could not be more grateful.
As my husband/bandmate and I welcome our third child soon, I don’t doubt that the art I love will be waiting for me, whenever I’m ready to return to it. It won’t ever look the same. Then again, neither will I. But long live the passions that grow older with us, that we can’t shake even if we try. May we be so lucky to tap into something so pure for all of our days.
illustrations by Victoria Allen
