1. your name

This was one of the first songs we wrote for the album, and I think it shaped everything that came after. It came from a place of fear—specifically, my fear of letting people go. I’ve always had this habit of holding on and remembering the good in someone even when the bad outweighed it. Sometimes I think I romanticize the pain just to make it feel like it was worth something.

“your name” is me trying to explain the way certain people never really leave, even when they’re long gone. It’s about how they echo in every new relationship, in every decision, in the way I give love or withhold it. Writing it felt like relief mixed with a quiet kind of grief.

I don’t think I wrote this one to move on. I think I wrote it to make peace with the fact that maybe I never fully will.

2. motion sick

If “your name” was about the quiet ache of holding on, “motion sick” is where that grief gets louder—more chaotic, more playful, more confusing. This track is when I realized how much I’ve confused intensity with connection. I wanted the song to sound fun, even a little flirty, because that’s what those relationships felt like: dizzying, exciting, sometimes thrilling—but ultimately disorienting.

“motion sick” lives in that place where you know something’s wrong, but the ride is moving so fast and it’s all you’ve ever known, so you just keep going. It’s me admitting that sometimes, I didn’t want off the carousel.

3. second nature

This song came from that unsettling space where you realize you’ve gone from being someone’s priority to their habit. The title comes from the lyric “first we both tried, and now I’m second nature / chilling with all your afterthoughts.” That feeling of fading into the background—of becoming part of the routine instead of part of the heart—is what I was trying to capture.

Unlike “motion sick,” this relationship was calmer, maybe even healthier—but instead of feeling safe, I felt sidelined. It made me wonder if love still counts when it stops being loud. Is it still love if it doesn’t feel like chaos? This song is full of contradiction—wanting peace, but craving proof that you matter enough to cause a storm.

4. all the things I’d do

This one might be the most honest I’ve ever been with myself. “all the things I’d do” is me looking straight at the version of me that stayed in love even when I wasn’t being loved back—not fully, not in the way I needed. It’s about the kind of relationship where you keep shrinking yourself just to stay close to someone who won’t make room for you.

The opening lyric—“I never come up for air, I don’t need it dear / you can hold me down if it means that I can keep you here”—captures that exact feeling. That desperate kind of love where you’re willing to suffocate just to not be alone. I look back at who I was then and I feel so much compassion for her. She thought love meant sacrifice, and she gave everything, even when it started to cost her joy, her confidence, her peace.

When you’ve learned to survive on crumbs, you convince yourself that even the worst of situations is a feast. This song is about that cycle—knowing better, but still choosing what’s familiar.

It’s not a song of blame. It’s a song of recognition.

6. mr. too perfect

“mr. too perfect” is one of my favorite tracks because it’s the most vulnerable on the album. It’s about being in a relationship where the other person seems to have it all figured out—everything looks perfect on their side, but you’re still broken, still healing, still holding on to things you haven’t processed yet.

The thing is, when someone is so put-together, it makes you feel like your own mess is something that needs fixing. That’s the paradox of it. You love them, you know they love you, but there’s this constant, unspoken tension—because they’ll never have your scars, your trauma, your experiences that shaped the way you love.

It’s a battle between guilt and love—feeling like you’re not good enough for them, and at the same time, feeling like they deserve someone who’s healed. But the more we worked on this track, the more I realized that even in the mess, love can still exist. It’s not always neat, not always easy, but it’s real.

5. side effects

“side effects” is the turning point of the album—the climax where I finally choose to walk away, even though I know it’s going to hurt. I wanted this song to feel like ripping off a bandage: sharp, necessary, and strangely freeing.

It starts with a memory—cutting my finger as a kid and hating the medicine because it stung. It felt like the perfect metaphor for what it’s like to leave someone who was bad for you. The pain of staying in a wrong relationship was real, but so is the pain of leaving. I wanted better for myself, and I knew I had to leave to get there, but I didn’t expect the loneliness, the guilt, the grief that came with choosing myself.

This song was the most freeing one to write. Not because it made everything okay, but because it finally said out loud what I’d been feeling for so long—that healing doesn’t feel good right away. But at least this time, the pain had a purpose.

This track is me standing in the wreckage, knowing I caused some of it by leaving—but finally understanding that doesn’t make it the wrong decision.

7. fender bender

“fender bender” is the song that hurt the most to write, but the one I am most proud of. This track is all about the emotional baggage I was still carrying. It expresses how I’d taken past relationships and

experiences into every new space, every new relationship, without realizing that the weight was stopping me from growing.

The line that feels like the gut punch of the entire album for me is, “you’re still my favorite fender bender / could’ve been worse, but who’s to say / ‘cause though I lived despite of you / we still collided at the same time and at the same place.” That’s how I feel about so many of my past relationships—meeting someone at the right time, in the right place, but still having that inevitable crash because we weren’t heading in the same direction anymore. Maybe it’s fate, maybe it’s foolishness, but there’s this strange peace in knowing that I can remember them with love, despite the damage.

This song is where I finally begin to understand that I don’t need to hold onto everything that’s hurt me. The grief is real, but I can still keep the lessons, the moments, the love that was true. It’s the moment I start accepting that the past can’t be changed, but it can be put down.

8. off the carousel

“off the carousel” is the closing chapter of everything I’ve been grappling with in this album. It’s the acceptance speech—the moment where I finally make peace with the chaos and the cycles I’ve been stuck in. The metaphor is simple but true: leaving something that has been a constant, even when it’s been toxic, feels like jumping off something that’s still spinning. You’re not going to land softly—you’re going to stumble, you’re going to fall, and it’s going to feel wrong until you finally find stillness.

The ending line—“took the leap off, stumble and fall, but at least I’m off the carousel”—is the moment where I finally realize that the fall, the discomfort and the wobble is where the freedom starts. You’re not going to land perfectly, but the silence when it’s over is worth every second of disorientation. It’s the first breath of real peace.

This was a bit of an essay, but I hope you found healing in my healing and this world we created. Thank you for listening <3

Connect with francene:

"off the carousel", track-by-track by francene rouelle