Sandra-Lee Layden

Adding a little spice to the mix with @lakeview

When I was approximately twelve, I saw Alan Doyle walk by me in the Avalon Mall food court - directly across from the IT store. My pre-teen bestie and I lost our breath. It was like seeing Christ himself.
 I reminded myself of that several decades later as the bus hit a rumble strip driving across the Canadian prairies, and I lay in my bunk filled with anxiety, with tears streaming down my face, feeling extremely out of place and wishing I could just text my bud Kendel to meet me in the front lounge for a few words of affirmation and a cold one. But I was on the crew bus, and she was on the band.
 I laid there telling myself, baby girl, you did it, made your dreams come true. I was sprinting across the country on a fancy tour bus working for the crowned prince of Newfoundland himself.
 I’ve been on the road now for four years, pretty much non-stop, and I will be the first to admit I’ve never worked as hard as I have on this tour, nor felt so accomplished and proud of the work I’ve done. Sizzle reel, photo post, coffee walks, merch - lather, rinse, repeat. While I felt like maybe I didn’t work as “hard” as the crew, I knew I was putting in these fucking hours.
 Being able to spend two hours a day walking with a living legend, who I ended up being able to call a close friend, hit me in a way I can’t explain. While there was 95% joy, there was 5% “hey, sometimes it’s hard” - but we’re both road dogs through it all. 
I’m so incredibly blessed to be able to do this, and it’s probably tiring to hear that from me after every run, but I tour with the people I tour with for a reason - they’re home. 
It’s hard to explain to someone who doesn’t do this, but there’s a comfort in knowing there’s at least one person on the road who sees you. I’m grateful I have dozens who do. 
What an honour to know that one of them is himself, the one and only - the road Robot; Alan Doyle “Well do it again soon.”
“Oh yeah I know buddy. Don’t you worry, we’re gonna take over the world together”
“I’ll be the loud hairy fella” Cheers, to Petty Harbour Marble. (ps; there’s at least 3 more Doyle coded posts coming; prep for your eyes to be as wet as yer drawers)

New promo work for my new besties @theeastpointers - they just announced their Canadian tour; don’t sleep on those tickets! I hear the tin whistle solos cannot be beat.

Hitting the road with @thetrews and @eddyandthedirtyboys was something special. We’re all real East Coast through and through. I grew up just a few steps behind the Trews, so getting to photograph the b’ys through the years never stops feeling surreal.
 There’s a lot of love and respect there. They’re a pivotal part of the music family I’ve found a home in here in Ontario, and they welcomed me in without hesitation.
 I’m not in this for the accolades, but I don’t think I’ve ever felt so consistently seen and appreciated from the entire team outside of my work with my brothers in the Sons. From the band to the crew, it was felt every single day. It never felt like separate roles or lanes, it felt like a family. Everyone looking out for each other, offering words of affirmation, stepping in without being asked, and every bit of it met with real appreciation and love. That kind of environment stays with you. It pushed me to work harder, find light in everything, offer assistance outside of the scope of work I was there to do but also let me drop my guard a bit; to just be fully myself. Open, honest, and fully in it. 

Their work ethic says a lot about why they’ve held their place in Canadian rock for as long as they have. It’s not by accident. It’s built night after night, in the way they show up, in the way they still care. Colin, a walking catalogue of songs, giving everything in those VIP rooms. John Angus, still cutting through with the kind of guitar playing that shaped a generation of bands coming up behind them. Jack, all heart, all energy, keeping the pulse alive. Theo pushing through it, no shortcuts, no complaints. And Jeff, steady and sharp, the kind of presence that quietly holds it all together. There’s history there, but it doesn’t feel stuck in the past. It feels earned, and still very much in motion.

I feel like a square peg in a round hole.
 Always have. And somewhere along the way, that feeling twisted itself into this quiet belief that I’m an inconvenience - something slightly off, slightly too much, slightly not quite right for the room. So I learned early how to be myself, just… palatable enough that people wouldn’t leave. To be someone people are glad to have around. Someone who doesn’t make things harder. From the beginning, my mind wandered to exits. Not always loudly, not always dramatically, but consistently. A low hum. Each bridge, each rushing river, each crashing wave - less about wanting to disappear, more about wondering where I might fit if I did.
 Maybe it comes from feeling like I had to raise my voice just to be seen. Like I had to over-explain, over-feel, over-give just to land somewhere close to understood. Surrounded, always, but somehow still separate. Misread. Misplaced. A little out of sync with the world around me. And on paper, it doesn’t add up. There are people. So many people. Close friends, best friends, chosen family. Enough love that I should feel held by it. Which makes it easy to tell myself I don’t get to feel this way that it’s indulgent, or ungrateful.
 But losing my right arm, my person, my constant - did something I can’t quite explain. It didn’t just leave a space. It echoed something deeper. Like confirmation of a quiet fear I’ve carried for years - that I’m not essential. That I’m replaceable. That I’m easy to lose.
 Still, I love. Hard. Loud. Without hesitation. I want people to feel safe with me. Seen by me. I want to be the kind of person people are relieved to have in their lives, the one who shows up, who holds it down, who makes things softer, easier, better somehow.
 And maybe that’s what all of this is. Not weakness. Not failure. Just… trying. Trying to survive inside a brain that doesn’t always feel like home. Trying to make space for myself in a world that doesn’t always seem to have it ready. Trying, in the simplest way, to be someone worth staying for and someone worth staying as.

Sometimes you’re tired. Sometimes the couch is calling and the easy answer is no. But sometimes life knocks with something better - a chance to sit in a room with one of the most talented guitar players you’ve ever seen, who also happens to be one of the most genuine humans you’ve come across. So you say yes. To the adventure. To the moment. To the life you fought for and are still learning to fully live and love. Still pinching myself over three days hanging with the incomparable @stephstringsmusic , with a little surprise moment with one of my favourites @wellesmusic at Massey Hall✨ Tiny baby fairy claps all around.

“There are people who go out, do this and say no… it’s not for me; but you.. you thrive. I’ve never seen you happier than when you’re on the road” Grateful for my little life and everyone in it. Life’s short baby, the only timeline you’re on is your own. Live it for you. Live it for the ones who don’t get to.

Just a couple of my buds ripping my favourite @bluerodeoofficial song at @masseyhall

Very honoured to be nominated for an East Coast Music Award. I’ve put my whole heart into this work, and I’m deeply grateful for the people and artists who trust me with their worlds. This recognition means more than words.

Thank you for every message, every kind word, every bit of love on my recent posts; it genuinely meant more than you know. I’ve been told the brutal honesty resonates. If my truth helps even one person feel less alone, I’ll keep showing up. That’s the point. I can’t imagine mistaking comfort for safety, silence for peace, and fear for survival - and calling that a life. It’s not sustainable. I’m finding my rhythm again and stepping back into the messy, beautiful, dirty rock & roll life I know best. I’ve been knocked down more than once, but I keep getting back up, led by passion, heart, and an unshakable love for telling people’s stories through music; remembering how hard I love, how deeply I feel, and how much fire I carry. There’s nothing I love more than hitting the road, telling people’s stories, and living inside the wild and magic of the music world. Grateful beyond words to be here, doing this and all of you alongside me. Taking the high road, always. Onwards. Upwards.

The last month stripped me down to a version of myself I barely recognize. I’ve lost the plot. Lying in bed most for days and nights replaying everything I think I did wrong this past year. Losing all the progress I’ve made in becoming a stronger, better version of myself. Heartbreak. Trauma. Grief. A loud, unforgiving mind. Trying to understand how I got here and why I feel like a shell of the woman I thought I’d be by now. Part of me is proud I’ve survived this far. The other part of me feels disappointed in myself for not being further, for still fighting the same old battles, for loving the wrong people, for settling for crumbs dressed up as comfort. I keep wondering if I’d be different if I had a normal brain. If I was nurtured instead of hardened. If what I went through broke something in me or built the exact woman standing here now. Maybe this is my legacy. Maybe this is just one chapter I haven’t finished writing yet. I’m still that small town girl who learned early how to escape. Escape the chaos. Escape the feeling of being unworthy. Escape the belief that love has to hurt to be real. I’m realizing how often I confuse attention with love. How quickly I attach to anyone who offers me a soft place to land. How easily I settle when I’m starving for kindness, instead of believing this is just how people are supposed to treat you. I’ve always been nothing short of painfully honest. Even when the truth hurts me. Even when it hurts other people. Because I can’t stand the weight of lies. The truth might sting, but at least you’re not living with the heaviness of pretending. Everything you see online is the culled, edited version and I’m so tired of the illusion that everything is okay. It’s okay to not be okay. I need to remember that in my short time on this planet, I’ve already lived a thousand lives. I need to remember who I am when I’m creating, when I’m witnessing, when I’m telling other people’s stories. No matter how lost I feel, my real home has always been behind the lens. And every time I pick up a camera, I come back to myself. Thank you to everyone who trusts me to show you how I see the world, i want to be here but I don’t know how.

Spent the day a few months ago in my other hometown, Kingston, hanging with my buds @jamesbarkerband . There’s just nothing like working with people who are hilarious, kind, and make every place feel like home.