There are moments in a life when the body speaks louder than any stage, louder than any ovation, louder than even your own ambition. For me, that moment arrived when years of touring, moving from stage to stage, carrying the weight of performance, expectation, and survival, all collided with the silent truths my body could no longer hold. Injury forced me to stop. For someone who had built an identity on motion, sound, and presence, stillness felt like exile. But it was in that exile that surrender became my teacher.
I had always thought surrender meant giving up. What I learned instead was that surrender is an act of faith. It is a return to breath, to the body, to the divine rhythm that lives inside all of us. It is not collapse; it is recalibration. For the first time, I allowed myself to release control, to listen more than I pushed, to receive rather than perform. That shift changed everything. It softened me. It expanded my understanding of what it means to lead a creative life rooted in care instead of chaos. Surrender taught me to slow down enough to hear my own pulse. It reintroduced me to God, to stillness, and to a gentler way of being that had always been waiting for me.
My name is TIKA. I am a musician, a composer, an Academy Award-nominated songwriter. I am a cultural strategist, a curator, a multidisciplinary artist, and a plus-size model. My life has been defined by creating spaces for sound, art, and visibility. In 2018, I was touring extensively, performing across the country, building my career as a touring artist, when I was booked to perform at the Opera House in Toronto. Alongside the show, I had interviews with major fashion magazines, workshops with leading organizations, and a press tour that demanded precision and energy. It was the culmination of years of preparation, visibility, and performance.
My manager at the time, a Black woman, called with what I initially perceived as care and excitement. She informed me of the booking and the accompanying opportunities. I packed my bags, gathered groceries, and carried the weight of long-standing hyper-independence that had defined my life. I had always relied on myself for work, travel, and life, but that week, it betrayed me.
The first Airbnb I stayed in was noisy with construction. The management company offered me a better property, a penthouse suite. It seemed ideal until I realized it was a four-story walk-up with no elevator. I carried two large suitcases and four grocery bags up four flights of stairs. By the time I reached the top, my back gave out. I did not yet know it, but I had herniated a disc. That injury became a defining moment, reframing my understanding of what it means to live with a disability in a world that often ignores pain.
Despite the injury, my manager remained passive about my pain. She saw it, yet treated it as an inconvenience. I had workshops to lead, interviews to attend, and the show to perform. I performed seated, enduring pain that the people closest to me seemed unwilling to acknowledge. Yet even in this state, every show sold out. People came not for my mobility or stamina, but for my presence and my music.
During that trip, I also realized something profound about my relationships. Toronto is a city built on motion, visibility, and performance. Many of my connections there were tied to me as a performer. After my injury, I continued to cook for others, chop vegetables, and do chores, but few noticed me hunched over or in pain. My existence outside of the stage went largely unseen. In Montreal, by contrast, life moved at a slower, more intentional pace. Friends checked in constantly, helped me with daily tasks, and made my healing a priority. It was there that I discovered which relationships truly allowed me to be a human being, not just a performer.
Returning home, I faced the full weight of recovery. I could barely get in and out of the tub without help. For the first time, I had to rely on others. Friends cooked, cleaned, and assisted me through basic tasks. I had never received this level of care, not from family, not from work, not from anyone in my immediate circles. This experience reshaped my understanding of care. Care is not optional. It is essential.
While healing, I confronted the harsh realities of the music industry. I gained over 100 pounds during my injury, and the industry responded with exile. I was no longer welcome in the spaces I had inhabited for years. The subtle glances, the exclusion from conversations, the erasure of my name from certain opportunities, it all spoke to the unspoken truth: visibility in this industry often has conditions. For women like me, Black and plus-sized, our presence is celebrated only when it can be consumed. Once we embody rest, softness, or recovery, the gaze shifts elsewhere.
Yet in this exclusion, I discovered clarity. Those spaces did not reflect my values, my humanity, or my artistry. They were not my home. In their absence, I began to understand the work I was meant to do: creating spaces for true artistry and authentic care.
It was during this time that I surrendered to a new path: composition. A friend told me about the Slaight Music Residency Program at the Canadian Film Centre, one of the few programs for musicians transitioning into composing. I applied, and out of more than 200 applicants, I was one of six selected. The program was meant to last nine months but extended to four years due to COVID. During that time, I immersed myself in the craft of scoring, voiceover work, theme songs, and immersive sound design.
Had I not pivoted to composition and surrendered to this opportunity, I would have had no income at all during the pandemic, unlike so many of my peers, who, as touring artists, faced complete financial halt. By the grace of God, I caught this path just in the nick of time. Through surrender, I discovered unexpected abundance, stability, and growth beyond what I could have anticipated. Composition taught me to advocate for myself, honour my limits, and value my craft in ways that touring never had.
This transition was also profoundly personal. As a touring artist, I had existed in a state of constant servitude to audiences, to venues, to expectations. Composition allowed for intimacy, for introspection, for the creation of worlds within sound while seated at my piano. I learned that my value was intrinsic, not performative. That my craft, and I myself, were worthy of respect, care, and sustenance.
The herniated disc injury taught me vulnerability. It taught me reliance. It taught me that pain can reveal systemic patterns, even within our own communities, and that the presence of care can transform survival into growth. My body broke, yes, but it also taught me to rebuild in ways that honour both the self and the support around me.
Today, I stand not as a victim, but as a victor. I continue to create, to compose, to perform, and to care. I continue to honour the sacredness of rest, the power of vulnerability, and the beauty of intentional presence. My body, once a source of limitation, has become my teacher. My experiences, once isolating, have become the blueprint for a life grounded in resilience, creativity, and community.
I have come to believe that rest itself is a form of resistance, not passive but radical. It disrupts every system that teaches us our value comes from exhaustion. Through surrender, I have learned that creativity is not born from striving but from safety. My art is no longer an escape; it is a return, to body, to faith, to joy. I now create from rest, not survival. That is the true revolution of my work.
And now, I see that my story is not only about me. It is about every artist who has been asked to trade their wellness for their worth. It is about the communities who deserve sanctuaries of healing, not just platforms of performance. The work I do through Iverna Island and its future branches, spaces rooted in restoration, artistry, and collective care, was born from this awakening. My surrender became a seed. What has grown from it is a belief that art and care are not separate disciplines; they are one and the same. To create from rest, to lead with gentleness, to live without apology for one’s need to heal, this is how we change the culture of creation itself.
And maybe that is what surrender really is: not defeat, but devotion. A quiet vow to meet life as it is and still choose beauty.
Every time I return to the piano, I am reminded that my body and spirit survived what was meant to silence them. Now, my music breathes for both of us, the artist and the healed woman, and in that sound, I am finally home.
By: Tika Simone
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