Juliana Hale is a Nashville-based multi-instrumentalist, singer-songwriter, and visual artist who skillfully blends pop, funk, and dance influences. Her sound bridges singer-songwriter intimacy with high-energy pop production, while her influences—ranging from Taylor Swift to Mac Miller—shape her emotionally rich and stylistically diverse music. Moreover, she has opened for major acts including Snoop Dogg, Halsey, and Flo Rida, and has performed at renowned festivals such as SXSW, Breakaway, and Common Ground, further cementing her place in the indie-pop scene.
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Recently, In October 2025, she released her latest single Skin and Bones along with an album of the same name. The project reflects her long battle with chronic illnesses such as gastroparesis and IBD. Through “Skin and Bones,” Hale channels her pain into purpose, creating an anthem for those struggling with body image and invisible illnesses, a reminder that vulnerability can become strength, and survival itself is a form of victory.
Skin and Bones unfolds as a vulnerable pop ballad that carries its pain with quiet grace. At first, it begins in near silence, led only by slow piano notes that echo like thoughts in an empty hospital room. The space in the production feels intentional, as if every pause mirrors the breath between pain and endurance. Right away, the opening question, “Do you know how it feels to not be at home in your own body?”, breaks the distance between artist and listener.
Then, when the chorus arrives—“I’m down to skin and bones”—the sound swells and breaks open into something heavier, more desperate. The shift feels emotional, not just musical. Suddenly, the dam breaks; years of frustration, isolation, and quiet fear spill out at once.
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Each lyric feels lived-in, especially “Ask me how I’m feeling and I’ll stretch the truth a mile.” The song shows exhaustion, not passively, but through the active strain of pretending to be fine when the ache never leaves. Moreover, lines like “Say my prayers, I’m still not fixed” dismantle false hope and reveal the quiet despair of waiting for a cure that may never come.
The final chorus drives the music to rise and demand attention. The last lines—“I’m more than what makes me sick, can still be whole and not be fixed”—no longer sound like a plea but like acceptance, or resilience earned the hard way. Finally, the song focuses not on perfect healing but on existing fully, even in imperfection. In fact, it doesn’t seek pity or resolution; it insists on recognition. By the end, Skin and Bones captures what survival truly means—not triumph, but the strength to keep going.
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Figuring out my path while actively plotting ten others. Serious about my dreams with somewhat chaotic ambition. Will do anything for cats.
