I grew up in a close-knit family unit in Selly Park in Birmingham with two younger siblings, James and Dionne. Music was instilled in all of us and I remember our rickety old piano took up a lot of the living room in our small house. Anything that we were drawn to, whether it was creative writing, sport or music, our parents encouraged us to embrace it fully and go for it.
Ours was a Christian household with a Caribbean sensibility and Sundays were the cornerstone of the schedule because of church. Sunday dinners, particularly Caribbean dinner, were huge and prepared the day before by all of us. Whether it was seasoning the chicken or preparing veg, we were always expected to help.
My auntie, my mum’s brother’s wife, opened me up to music. She came to babysit when I was about seven or eight, sat down at the piano and played a tune and I just thought, I want to do that. I loved it, although I was a stubborn kid and didn’t practise enough if I found that week’s piece boring. My dad always said I’d need discipline before finding pleasure and he was right.
My parents divorced when I was 21 and it was horrendous. Even though it was 10 years ago, it still feels raw sometimes but I have begun to see my parents as human beings, rather than invincible superhuman creatures, and as a result of that I feel like I’m a much stronger person. I’m still vulnerable but I feel much less like I’m existing in that protective bubble I grew up in where they protected us from the turbulence of their own relationship. We weren’t aware of that much trouble but, terrible though it sounds – and the split remains traumatic – but there’s a strange relief in knowing that my parents are just like me and I’m just like them.
I have the deepest love and respect for my parents. There was a distance between my father and me after the split but we’ve begun the process of bridging that gap. These things take time.
I suffer from depression and anxiety and, in all seriousness, I would not be here today without my brother and sister’s unconditional love. It still makes me wince to see my name written next to the words “mental illness”, but the practical, real depth of consistent care and concern has cushioned my burden. Sometimes when I’ve not felt able to cry, they cry with me or for me. Or when I’m not able to ask by myself, they’ll do it for me. The hardest thing has been looking my family in the eye and seeing them see me suffer and feel helpless, and it not being something that they can just fix. I know that whatever happens to me I’m not judged by them. To them I’m precious Laura, with or without the anxiety, with or without the music.
I’m divorced now [from Themba Mvula] but I do think about marriage and children. I yearn to build a family and to be in love, and sometimes I think, how is that going to happen now? But I have started to look at my life and what I’m doing now and I can quite confidently say, “yeah, this is what I want and I look forward to that, some day.”
Family means warts and all. Family is my only real strength. I used to be able to say I had faith in deity, but I struggle with those questions now. But my family make it possible for me to have hope for my own future, and I’m lucky to be a part of a family that believes in unconditional love. That means that when we fuck up or when we’re not able to answer questions and it looks ugly, they still move towards love; I move towards that.
• Laura Mvula is performing at the Latitude Festival (latitudefestival.com, July 14-17). Her new album, The Dreaming Room, is out now.
