Julie Guay AKA Mad Lips 21 — The Voice That Refused to Disappear
- Feb 2
- 3 min read
Julie Guay — The Voice That Refused to Disappear
Some artists are born in noise.
Others are born in silence.
Julie Guay belongs to the second kind.
She did not grow up surrounded by people eager to hear her sing. She grew up with an inner voice too large for the room, too alive for the space she was given. At six years old, she was already singing, not to be seen or applauded, but because something inside her was searching for a way out. In front of a mirror, wearing an oversized sweater, she performed with devotion and imagination. Singing was a play. Singing was a refuge. Singing was instinct.
But there was neither the luxury nor the capacity around her to support that dream. So the voice learned to soften. To wait. To quiet itself in order to survive.
When creativity could no longer pass through her mouth, it found another route, through her hands. Drawing. Writing. Silence is chosen instead of imposed. Julie learned early that life would not hand her gifts. She learned how to cry without tears. How to endure without spectacle. How to carry weight invisibly. From the outside, she appeared fortunate. Inside, she was learning what it meant to live with loss before having anything to lose.
Then came renunciation.
Just as she finished her studies, everything shifted. In 2009, her mother was diagnosed with a severe, incurable illness, and her father lost his job within the same year. Still young and full of dreams, Julie made a quiet decision. She put her own aspirations on hold to support the people she loved. She entered full-time work, accepted a job she did not love, and sacrificed her youth without drama, without recognition, and without applause.
During those years, creation did not disappear. It dimmed. Julie wrote poems only to throw them away. She drew and gave her work to friends. There was no vision of where it might lead. Creation was still necessary, but no longer hopeful. It existed to release, not to build.
What followed cannot be softened.
In 2019, her father died of leukemia. Six months later, the world entered a pandemic. In 2020, three days after her wedding anniversary, her marriage ended. In 2022, her mother suffered a heart attack in a healthcare system stretched beyond its limits. Five months later, Julie lost her best friend to colon cancer.
This is only a summary, she says. The surface barely touched.
And yet, in the midst of absolute chaos, something in her refused to collapse. In December 2021, with almost nothing left emotionally and materially, Julie created Mad Lips 21. Not as a business move. Not as a strategy. But as a vital act. A way to stay alive when everything else was falling apart.
Today, Julie makes music.
She does not yet sing with her own voice. Not because the voice is absent, but because full creative freedom requires tools she has not yet had access to. Still, her voice is present everywhere. In her art. In her words. In her compositions and her music. It speaks of resilience, not victimhood. Of having crossed pandemonium without wearing the identity of a victim. Of standing as a fighter, someone who survived what many people encounter only once in a lifetime, if ever.
She does not dramatize her suffering. She contextualizes it.
Her work is not about lamenting what was taken, but about honoring what remained. About choosing joy deliberately. About refusing to let injustice dictate one’s inner posture.
Her art is an offering.
To the young girl who was never given a chance.
To the woman she is now, one who deserves to exist fully and unapologetically.
To those who may recognize themselves not in the details, but in the endurance.
If she could speak to the 24-year-old woman she once was, standing on the edge of her first great loss, she would say only this:
You can succeed at anything you want.
Julie knows she is not alone in suffering. She knows many lives are harsher, many realities more unforgiving. That awareness does not silence her. It grounds her. She creates not to compare pain, but to leave a trace that is honest and humane.
A trace that says you can walk through devastation without losing your heart.
You can exist without permission.
And even late, even after silence, you can refuse to disappear.