Waring admits she struggled to name this album throughout the entire process, though her final choice ties into her experiences growing up in a home with parents who struggled with addiction. When asked about the title, Waring acknowledges, “There’s so much shame in this record. There’s a lot of self-blame. These songs became a place for the part of me that blames myself. That part of me really found a voice in this record.”

Of her family life, Waring says with humbling openness, “As I was coming into my identity as a young teenager, suddenly my responsibilities at home shifted. I was keeping secrets for my parents and navigating a totally different world. I held that responsibility so tightly and as a kid, I really believed it was my responsibility to keep everyone together, to keep my parents safe, to keep me and my brother safe. A lot of that blame hasn’t had anywhere to go. This album became a place where my rational adult brain could let the part of me that does still blame myself explore those feelings.”

Waring explores different kinds of therapy in life and in her art, but admits that traditional talk therapy has not been the best choice for her: “For me, I need something more somatic where I can actually experience the feelings rather than just think about the feelings,” she says. “Songwriting helps me get out of my body. It helps me bypass my critical brain.” Waring also doesn’t write with a specific audience in mind for fear that she will start self-editing or filtering her emotions. The result of that liberation is definitive and specific lyrics like “Called an ambulance on his birthday / having chest pains the morning before Mother’s Day.” In other words, lyrics that transport listeners and allow them to observe and embody Waring’s grief.

The album, like Waring, resists prescribed approaches of grieving that aim to methodize the process. With song titles that reference conventional symbols associated with death like “Ambulance,” “Hearse Chasing,” and “Lucky Ashes,” Waring gives her grief a narrative arc without insisting on resolution or acceptance. If you’re looking for a feel-good record, this is not the one for you. If you’re looking for a cathartic and authentic musical experience, though, this album will knock the wind out of you in the best way. 

Cassidy Waring doesn’t ask for your sympathy—she simply lays it all out, raw and unfiltered. What results is a record that acts less like a diary and more like an exorcism: songs that ache, swell, and release like a long-held breath. By refusing tidy endings or performative healing, Waring captures something far more honest—the way grief doesn’t just visit once, but haunts and reshapes every chapter of life. If I Had Only Been Better doesn’t promise closure, but it does offer connection. And in that, there’s a different kind of solace.