Pressure, Identity, and Fragile Progress: Lessons from Billy Joel and Olivia Dean
- debanshu kanungo
- Nov 30, 2025
- 12 min read
As one of my best friend Eric reminded me on our last call—yes, I know it’s been a while since my last post. I can only assume you all have had nothing else to consume but my posts, so thank you for surviving in silence.
But seriously— I hope you all had a lovely Thanksgiving, a joyful Christmas, or simply a meaningful time celebrating whatever holiday this season brings you (depending on when you’re reading this). As the year winds down, I’ve found myself with a lot to reflect on. And in many ways, this blog is the culmination of one of the most chaotic chapters of my 2025.
I’ve confided in a few people about how my life has been over the past couple of months — and for those who don’t know, I’d describe this time as preparing for a war that may never happen.
With everything going on, both externally and internally, these months have been goddamn taxing to say the least. It’s been a process of learning how to carry the weight of inherited pressure, external expectations, and internal desires — all at once. And as you can probably guess, for someone like me, this process has raised a whole lot of questions:
Are my dreams actually possible? Is the way I’m living true to me? Or is this just some gaslit attempt to pay back the sacrifices made for me? Am I always a step behind, or just endlessly chasing a version of myself that stays two steps ahead?
Like every blog I’ve written, I’m writing this in real time — while everything is still happening. Right now, those pressures are mounting. The emotional chaos feels louder than usual. I’ve had anxiety attacks I don’t fully understand. I’ve felt uncharacteristically off with my studies. I am constantly mentally numb. I’m sleeping less. And honestly, it’s been isolating.
All these changes have made me question so much of my life. And when I wanted to connect with someone about it — but didn’t know who, or even how — music filled that space. This post probably won’t surprise anyone. We already know how much I love Olivia Dean (queen), and we definitely know how deep my love for the ‘70s goes. I've been vascillating between both ever since The Art of Loving came out.
This post is probably my most intrepid attempt yet to capture my eclectic music taste, and more importantly, how and why I’ve connected with these songs over the past few months. Every track is intentional. Each one helped me articulate emotions I couldn’t put into words.
SONG REVIEWS
Got To Begin Again - Billy Joel
ALBUM BACKGROUND:
Are we surprised that the first song that held my hand through this mess is a Billy Joel track? “Got to Begin Again,” from Cold Spring Harbor — an album initially marred by production errors and label interference — has always had a rough start, much like the headspace I’ve been in. The album wasn’t a commercial hit, but after it was remastered, it became one of my favorites. It’s raw, emotionally messy, and beautifully unsure of itself — which is probably why I’ve clung to it so tightly.
ANALYSIS:
Got to begin Again is a heartfelt ballad that conveys the experience of reaching a personal dead end, a place where the route forward is unclear and the burden of past and current choices become tangible (sound familiar?). Billy’s vocals have this kind of soft exhaustion that underscores the vulnerability that is inherent to this process. There's a much needed sincerity to the universal experience of needing to reassess life.
“Well so, here I am at the end of the road
Where do I go from here?
I always figured it would be like this…”
These lines drop you straight into that mental space where everything feels... stuck. It’s not just an ending; it’s a weird, liminal pause where anticipation and resignation co-exist. It perfectly captures the feeling of knowing an inevitable reckoning is coming, but having no path forward. It is this imagery he articulates to a state of being lost and questioning Where do I go from here?
The opening lines set not only a tone of introspection but also embody the intense personal and professional turmoil he was undergoing at the time: a difficult breakup with his first wife (I think she is what inspired she got a way, the opening song to this album), a subsequent suicide attempt, and a contractual obligation to produce an album he didn't want. He hated it so much, he famously smashed the first copy against a wall.
This track, and the rest of Cold Spring Harbor (especially “Nocturne,” that haunting piano ballad), represent exactly how I’ve been feeling: I’ve come to the end of a road I’ve been dreading, yet I still have to keep waking up and walking forward — not even knowing where "forward" is.
If I ever made an album that captured my current emotions, I’d probably smash it against a wall too.
Once again, Billy’s music — just like it did back in my senior year of high school — shows up like a quiet friend who just sits next to you and gets it.
Baby steps - Olivia Dean
ALBUM BACKGROUND:
Ya, I bet EVERYONE expected this one, but my goddamn QUEEN Olivia Dean has absolutely instrumental during these times, I have been Olivia Deans biggest fan since before this hugely commercially successfully album.
Art of Loving is just Olivia Dean’s second album, but it’s a phenomenally tender rebuttal to modern romance — capturing the fragile mechanics we all recognize in the process of trying to fall in love, whether that’s with someone else or with yourself. It’s about failing over and over again, but continuing to try anyway. And it’s that exact nuance the album captures so well: the full emotional arc of immersing yourself in the process, not just for the outcome, but to actually learn how to enjoy it.
ANALYSIS:
This song to me feels like a sister track to her earlier Be My Own boyfriend and a sequel to The Hardest Part. But more than that — it feels like a conversation with myself.
Yes, the song’s technically about healing after losing a romantic partner. But for me, that "partner" has been the versions of myself I'm grieving: the past me, the ideal me, and the me that’s perpetually required. It’s like all three are sitting in a car with me, listening to this track as we glance back at who I was—and quietly ask who I’m supposed to become.
“Its funny in the rear view
You’re closer than you are
In truth, we are worlds apart”
That tangled communication with the different versions of myself is what the opening lyrics convey. Even on good days—when I pass an exam or go 24 hours without an anxiety attack—I’ll think I’m getting closer to the “better” version of myself. But almost immediately, that version feels out of reach again. Olivia captures that feeling perfectly: the illusion of proximity, when the emotional distance doesn’t match physical distance.
I’ve spent ages trying to figure out what other lyrics from the song to dissect here, but honestly the point of this blog isn’t just to break down the “why.” It’s to honor the way songs make me feel.
And this one? It makes me feel safe yet curious. The soft “Mm / Mm” that opens the track feels like an invitation to step inside a space where emotions are allowed to just be. The simplicity of that intro forces me to pay attention — not to decode, but to feel.
For me, “Baby Steps” is about the quiet act of rebuilding. It is a heartfelt exploration of independence, hard work, and self love. As the title suggests, this song epitomizes the experience I have struggled with the most: Rebuilding myself one baby step, one day, one obstacle at a time.
Los Angelonos - Billy Joel
ALBUM BACKGROUND:
Surprise! We’re back to Billy Joel. And if you’re wondering how a sonically upbeat song made it onto this list — its because sometimes the heavier days demand something that moves. Streetlife Serenade (1974) has become my go-to comfort album these past few months.
Though it was considered a rushed follow-up to Piano Man and got flack from critics at the time, I wouldn’t call it a disappointment. If I had to sum it up in one word: Whimsical. Every track has some sort of toe-tapping, head-bobbing beat, layered with Joel’s playful, observant lyrics.
Even the postcard like album cover suggests that Streetlife Serenade is not the full picture— and maybe that’s the point. When life itself feels fragmented and incomplete, maybe it's okay to lean into the snippets. This album invests time in configuring these snippets, predicated on calmer moments.
To me, this album is the materialization of eccentric, romanticised everyday life — something I’ve desperately needed lately. If you haven’t listened to this album front to back, do yourself a favor (thank me later).
ANALYSIS:
At the crudest level, “Los Angelenos” sounds like a fun, funky track about moving to LA and soaking in the city’s shine. But if you listen closely, it’s actually a thinly veiled roast. Joel wrote it during a time he was living in LA — an experience he later called a “big mistake.”
Joel uses the lyrics as a kind of weapon, to cut at the futility of the city’s destiny: As the mecca of false self-reinvention, where people escape to hide their true selves under shallow veneers and the sheen of life without seasons.
But here’s the twist: while Billy saw the song as a critique of LA’s delusion, I heard something different.
For me, “Los Angelenos” became a strangely grounding track — not because of its critiques, but because of how it observes people. The lyrics sketch out quick glimpses of different lives:
“Midwestern ladies, high-heeled and faded, driving sleek new sports cars…” “Sweet schoolgirls, so educated, tanning out on the beaches with their Mexican reefers…” “Los Angelenos all come from somewhere, and they come to the scene…”
It’s like Joel is walking down a crowded boulevard, quietly cataloguing lives as they pass. This track, with all its vignettes of lives carrying their own baggage, ironically became the one that anchored me during a time I felt most disconnected.
It was a stark reminder that when the big decisions about my future become too overwhelming, it is the tiny observations about the life around me that make experiences feel real, feel special, and return me to a mindset of gratitude. I think that's why this song became my favorite way to start my mornings.
TAKEAWAY
I know I’ve been vaguely alluding to this for the entire post, so let me get to the core of why I felt compelled to write this post.
These anxiety attacks I mentioned earlier have changed a lot since that game day when I wrote the beginning of this blog. What used to happen once a week started showing up every day. Then, multiple times a day. What were once mild episodes grew into full-body shutdowns — the kind that force me to stop mid-task, breathe, and wait it out.
Naturally, they’ve started bleeding into everything — my sleep, my relationships, the way I talk, think, even study. I’ve been living in a mental fog: highly emotional, constantly tired, and in a perpetual state of overwhelmed and emotionally suppressed. And it feels like every day, I wake up not knowing which version of me is going to show up — anxious me, silent me, agitated me, “normal” me, etc.
Yet, in some cynical way, living like this for months has forced me to look at myself differently. It’s been painful, yes, but also clarifying. Because when your body/mind starts revolting against your own pace of living, you have no choice but to ask why.
Uncovering months of extensive and detailed journaling has helped me trace the root of these attacks to one recurring theme: The fear of losing control over the things I’ve worked so hard for. That quiet, haunting worry that even if I do everything right — study, plan, hustle, sacrifice — some external force could still knock it all down. Visa rules. Institutional barriers. Someone else's decisions. Things I can't predict or prepare for.
We’re told to “control what you can control,” but no one tells you what to do when you’ve done that — when you’ve checked every box, sacrificed everything… and still, the future doesn’t feel like it’s yours.
That’s the reality I’ve been navigating these past few months. It’s not just stress; it’s the slow realization that the world doesn’t always reward effort the way we were promised it would. And learning how to live with that truth—without letting it consume you—is what I’m still figuring out.
So I guess the question is — what do you truly do in this situation?
Do you reframe your entire idea of success?
Do you ignore the nagging feelings of uncertainty tugging at the sleeves of your shirt every day?
Do you live the way you want to — or the way you have to in order to survive here?
It has been these types of questions that has been causing my anxiety to burst at its seams these past few months. And they’re also what pushed me to finally ask for help. I’m writing this now after my first few therapy sessions. And through them, I’ve started to realize something I couldn’t admit before: these attacks aren’t just about stress. They’re about identity.
On paper, I’m the textbook immigrant student who’s doing everything “right.” I study hard. I have goals. I make strategic decisions. I put pressure on myself to prove that I deserve to stay. It’s all curated to look like I have my life together.
But internally? I feel like I’m constantly in conflict with that version of myself. I’m tired. Tired of the visa milestones. Tired of chasing titles, salaries, prestige, and praise. I don’t dream of LinkedIn-worthy accomplishments. I dream of having a home gym, a home garden, and peace.
And yet, I’m not naive. I know I’ve had the privilege to even think this way because of the sacrifices made for me. And no, I’m not looking to throw that away. If anything, I care more than ever about school. About succeeding. But I’m realizing that success, as it's currently defined for people like me, might be what feels so impossible to hold.
For most of my life, I’ve believed that if I just kept doing what I was “supposed to do,” I’d finally feel safe — that I’d finally earn the sense of belonging I’ve been chasing since I got to this country. But lately, I’ve had to admit that it doesn’t work like that. I’ve done everything right, yet that feeling of home still hasn’t arrived.
And maybe that’s the cruel paradox of it all: the harder I work to secure my place here, the further I drift from myself.
BIGGER PICTURE
All of this — the pressure, the anxiety attacks, the therapy, the identity unraveling —sits at the intersection of inheritance, expectations, and immigration. And it’s shaped my reality in ways I didn't have language for until now.
Somewhere along the way, I’ve convinced myself that unless certain things happen — I don’t get to feel safe. I don’t get to stay. I don’t get to be free.
If I don’t get a job that sponsors me, I have to leave this “home."
If I can’t study for the LSAT or GMAT in time, I lose this “home.”
If I can’t financially support myself, I lose this “home.”
What begin as career goals evolve into survival checkpoints. They’ve made me driven, yes — but they’ve also made me miserable.
And as I sit in my bed at 3am writing this, exhausted and spinning out, I realize that this isn’t a way I can keep living. It’s not sustainable. And more importantly, this isn’t who I am.
Before I was matched with my therapist, the woman on the screening call asked, “What are some positive things about yourself that are helping you stay afloat during this time?”
And that question cracked something open.
Because despite everything, I do know what brings me peace. I do know when I am truly happy:
Wandering through unfamiliar cities.
Falling into books.
Singing at concerts.
Listening to podcasts that take me somewhere else.
Walking through campus with Streetlife Serenade playing like a soundtrack.
Those moments, fleeting as they are, are reminders of who I am underneath all the noise.
But I’ve also learned that trying to live like none of the pressure exists — pretending my future doesn’t hang on forces I can’t control — is just as impossible as ignoring who I am.
Throughout my life, I’ve always wanted to feel like I belong somewhere. To feel safe. To know what it’s like to not have to worry about tomorrow. But I live in the space between those dreams and my reality — and I don’t yet know how to balance the two.
All I know is I am trying.
Trying to live in that in-between — between being and becoming, between survival and selfhood, between right doing and wrongdoing.
Like all my other blogs, I’m not writing this to tell you how to think. I’m not claiming I’ve figured it all out. I’m just laying it all out there — the thoughts, the contradictions, the emotional wreckage — so you can feel a little less alone if you're sitting with the same questions.
Because beyond the personal implications, there’s something broader here:
We don’t talk enough about what it means to build a life within a system that doesn’t always make space for you. Not just for immigrants — but for anyone who’s had to shape themselves to fit into something that was never designed for them. Whether that’s based on background, identity, gender, ability — whatever it may be.
Because I agree, sure we can’t control everything, especially the way institutions or governments or policies show up in our lives. But we can name how they affect us. That in itself is necessary. We need to talk about the weight the systems put on people like me—like us—and why that matters. Because ignoring it doesn’t make it disappear. And acknowledging it? That might be the first step in making sure we don’t let it swallow who we are like it has me these past few months.
So I’ll leave you with this:
What would you do in this situation?
Do you keep blindly trusting that your hard work will eventually be enough to buy your safety?
Or do you start redefining success, even if it risks everything you’ve been working toward?
I don’t have the answers. But I am just hoping I am asking the right questions.