The Catalyst interview: Jewel

Singer/songwriter Jewel, who co-headlines with Melissa Etheridge at the Baycare Sound Sept. 26, has sold more than 30 million records. She's also a New York Times bestselling author whose memoir is pointedly titled Never Broken: Songs Are Only Half the Story.

Mental health is an important topic for the deeply introspective Jewel (Kilcher), who left her Alaskan home at 15, in part to escape an abusive alcoholic father. She lived in her car for a year – and was literally homeless after it was stolen.

Jewel broke through in 1995 with the massive hits "You Were Meant For Me" and "Who Will Save Your Soul," from her debut album, Pieces of You. The album sold 12x Platinum.

In 2002 she co-founded the Inspiring Children's Foundation, a nonprofit dedicated to transforming the physical, emotional and mental health of at-risk youth in Las Vegas.

A little over a year ago, Jewel co-founded and became Chief Strategy Officer of Interworld, a virtual reality-based wellness center where anyone can access free mental health tools in a safe, comfortable space.

At almost the same moment, she announced that her mother – who had been serving as her manager – had embezzled $133 million from her.

"I had to learn how to heal after what happened with my mom," she says in this interview. "I was about to go make a lot of money, and I needed it, but I couldn't psychologically handle it.

"And so I forewent that money and chose my mental health."

Tickets for the Sept. 26 concert are here .

St. Pete Catalyst: Why was it important to you to work help create Interworld?

Jewel: I think anybody that's really suffered feels connected to the world in a different way. And, that suffering feels like the most real and important thing in life is learning how not to suffer. It troubled me, when I moved out at 15, that there was no way to learn about it. I was raised in an abusive household, raised in dysfunction, and I inherited that dysfunction. It's like being taught a language; I would grow up speaking that language, just like I grew up speaking English.

There were no resources and no places to learn about happiness. Learning a new emotional language. And so I had to learn that on my own. I had to insist on it, I had to fight for it, I had to make it my every day's waking focus. Because the chances of my life being disastrous were so high. And I didn't want to die. I didn't want to end up in an abusive relationship. I didn't want to be an addict.

But it was such a fight to become something else. And it doesn't have to be. There can be roadmaps. And having developed a roadmap for myself out of necessity, and also knowing that not everybody's like me ... I was a weird kid. I was stubborn and tenacious, and I poured that stubbornness and tenacity into insisting I learned how to be happy. Over decades.

It's a weird thing, I don't know if you'd want to call it a talent but it's been a big part of my life. It's been the most important part of my life, and it's unacceptable that misery is such an equal opportunist. It's so efficient. It doesn't care if you're rich or poor, or Black or white.

But to learn a new way takes education. And therapy at its best should be a re-education, and that costs money ... and means suddenly therapy is an elitist proposition? That's unacceptable.

And so I've just felt very strongly, from a very young age, about democratizing access to systems that work, with or without therapy.

And I think it's super-interesting. I find it as interesting creatively as I do any kind of art.

But you don't have to do charitable things. You didn't have to pour your time, energy and money into these programs. What's that part of you that wants to help others?

When you're very, very poor, your community actually really matters to you. I'd been living in the projects in Anchorage, and all the moms there that were on welfare ... when you know that a Sick Day could cost you your job, when you know that your kid having to be home sick from school means that you might miss work, and that that might cost you your job. And then if you don't make your rent that month, you're going to be kicked out of where you're living on top of it ... a lot of people live on that level of insecurity. And you need your neighbor to cover you for that day, or to go watch your kid that day.

I have found a lot more community and a sense of interconnected-ness in deeply poor areas than in deeply wealthy areas. Now, these are very bold generalizations; they don't work perfectly. I know a ton of philanthropic wealthy people. But when it comes to, like, knowing your life actually is in the hands of the people around you in your community, I think wealth gives us a false sense of security.

So I kind of credit it to just that. There was a mom that took me in that didn't have to. She cared for me and she didn't have to. And I saw how much these women depended on each other. And for me, if I can help somebody else not suffer, and not want to kill themselves, I don't know anything more fun. Or more important.

You know, being onstage is fun. Singing is a great job, it's very fun. But helping people enjoy living? This sense of connection? It's a great thing. And I find it very creatively interesting, learning how to build behavioral health tools used the same part of my creativity that learning how to write songs did. It's the same thing, it's just a different application.

Pieces of You, your first album, is about to turn 30. I always wondered how and why Ben Keith, who played steel guitar on almost every Neil Young record but was not really known as a producer, produced that album?

I had a big bidding war over me, and because of that bidding war and how high-profile it was, I was given all the top producers of the time – and all of them wanted to make me not sound like an 18-year-old that didn't know what she was doing. They wanted to give me their expertise and polish it up, take these six-minute-long songs and make them more refined. And I didn't think it was honest.

Because I didn't know what I was doing! And I was an 18-year-old kid, and I just wanted to be honest more than anything. More than I wanted to be popular.

I saw these records that I really loved, Harvest and Harvest Moon, and I saw the name Ben Keith on the back. And when I talked to him, he just liked my six-minute-long songs. And he didn't want to change me. He wanted to let me be who I was. And that's how that happened.

Let's turn the clock back to the days before the first album drops. You're 18. What are your expectations? What are you thinking?

I set things up the best I could to achieve the goals I cared about. So before I signed my record deal, I forced myself to be very, very, very clear about what was motivating me. And what I actually, really cared about was having a career. I really cared about being an artist. I really cared about being honest.

I really cared about my happiness. That was my number one thing. And so I made myself a promise to learn to ne what I called "a happy whole human," not "a human full of holes." And that I would have to have a real plan around it, that was auditable. And how would I know if I was doing better?

And then my number two job was to be a musician. And under that I wanted to be an artist more than famous. Once I identified that, I was very, very loyal to those two things. And it caused me to make decisions like turning down a million dollar signing bonus, getting the biggest back end anybody had ever gotten, working with a producer that was for a singer/songwriter, not for a commercial success, turning down Big Brother that would have made me massively famous overnight, but wouldn't have given me a career, I felt like. And then betting on myself. De-risking me up front, taking all that money away so the label couldn't drop me. Then betting on myself so that if I did sell records, I'd win on the back end.

I didn't think my record would light up the world, and it didn't. It failed for two years. I stayed very loyal to those things, and I trusted, and when I started to lose faith I started making a second album. I gave up on Pieces of You.

And then Dylan took me out on the road. And Dylan believed in me. He was like, "Just keep going." He said "You may never be popular. You may never have money. But are you a singer/songwriter? Or are you not?" And having him believe in me at that critical time, it was like divine intervention.

Nine years and millions of record sales later, you come out with the upbeat dance/pop album 0304. It's always great to see an artist pivot in a new direction they believe in – but wasn't that commercially risky?

Oh my God, so risky. Especially for a girl. People hated Dylan for going electric; people hated a lot of Neil's decisions when he started getting grungy – but luckily I had those two guys as role models.

And they instilled it in me. It really takes a punk rock attitude to be a proper folk artist. You have to have a very "f— everything, I'm going to do what I believe in."

For me, not making 0304 would have been a sellout. For me, making "You Were Meant For Me .2" or .3 would have been me selling out. That's just how I'm wired. If I'm not growing and learning, that's me just being safe and doing something that's better for business.

Doing 0304 was a huge risk, but the most authentic thing I could do. And you have to be willing to part ways with popular perception.

Thirty years means a lot of creating, a lot of soul-searching, a lot of explaining yourself. How would you describe this journey you're on?

I think that my life required me to make good on my promise to learn how to be a happy person. As a priority. In a way that caused me to put my career second, multiple times.

I make what I call my Deathbed Decisions – when I'm doing something, I pretend I'm on my deathbed, and I look back and I go "Do I care about this moment?" "Will I care about this decision – will it move the needle?"

I had to learn how to heal after what happened with my mom. I was about to go make a lot of money, and I needed it, but I couldn't psychologically handle it.

And so I forewent that money and chose my mental health.

I want my life to be my best work of art. I don't want my art to be my best work of art. That would make me kind of an asshole.

And so I'm very proud I stayed true to those promises I made myself – my hierarchical decision-making process of being an artist.

But it's a trip. Everybody's career is a unique little thing – and your life happens in the process, too.