Lindsay Brandt

The sun streams through the big, old windows of Lindsay Brandt's quiet apartment, and you feel at peace. Her home feels haunted in the best way, her spirit and life force lingering after her. There’s an aura, a feeling like every molecule of oxygen is a little bit more inflated wherever she has been, and when you breathe in, you feel fuller, lighter, more alive. 

Lindsay is the kind of person you don't forget. Not because she's a whole lotta' hair and a whole lotta' woman — she is — but because she's different in the best way. Because she commands her own life, exuding both an air of infinite possibility and deeply anchored sensibility — In this world, but not of it. If you ask her how she straddles that line, she’ll smile and chalk it up to God. You know it's the truth, and you want it for yourself. But you don’t understand yet, not fully. 

So you wonder until you wander over to one of her usual neighborhood spots for coffee and casual chit chat. Your coffee is still brewing, and she already gets you. Not because you’re simple or static or small-town, but because that’s her thing: she gets people. 

Knowing Lindsay means you know yourself better. Sometimes it’s uncomfortable to feel so see-through, but mostly it’s magical. Her gift is this very unique brand of love — one that does not prioritize convenience or ease, delivering it where and to whom it is needed. She loves completely, she loves earnestly, and she loves often. She channels that gift in different ways, her passion spilling into music, writing, photography, philanthropy, and baking.

Truly getting her takes a little more time. She actually is small-town, hailing from Evansville, Indiana. Her grit comes from Midwestern attitudes about integrity, hard work, and frying eggs in bacon grease. She’s tough. But then she’s tender, too, with an old soul and a mastery of the sort of chocolate chip cookies you thought only your grandma could make. She's deep. But then she's playful, too, always dancing about and throwing her head back in infectious laughter. 

Most of Lindsay's days are spent with children. That's her job — it's how she pays the bills — but you'll rarely hear her describe it that way. If you ask about this time with an ever-present baby on her hip, she'll light up. She'll want to share pictures and stories. She'll tell you they've changed her — they broke her heart wide open and the truth started spilling out. When you listen to her latest record, Delta, you'll know she's right. You'll hear an explosive amount of profundity compacted into short, matter-of-fact lyrics. From her headquarters in Nashville, Tennessee, she writes songs about what's happy, what hurts, and what's yet to come. Her music might come on a mix tape with Johnny Cash and Patsy Cline, but her delivery is modern, relatable. Her stories resonate with you.

Lindsay is sticky like that. Her lyrics loop in your mind, and the things she says to you over coffee — the poring questions — leave you grappling and growing into yourself until your next “Life Lessons with Lindsay” appointment. To last you until then, she’ll probably give you a crafty knapsack of treats with some inspirational quote in enviable calligraphy. 

She’s not fluffy or superficial or fanciful. Lindsay is real, honest, and down-to-earth — a dose of her is a dose of the stuff you can’t buy or fabricate. The same way she uses salted butter in her baked goods, she is always seeking the unexpected ingredients that make life sweeter. You’re in good company with Lindsay. Watch and learn — she’ll rub off on you.