The Story Behind the Song: Only Believe

Some songs are written because an idea shows up.

Others are written because your heart simply cannot stay quiet any longer.

Only Believe was one of those songs.

Long before I ever wrote the first lyric, I already knew how it had to begin.

"Ricky Dean, my love..."

Most people call my husband Ricky.

Some have called him Rick for years.

He hates it.

Not because he's being difficult.

Because it isn't his name.

His name is Ricky Dean Mullins.

Always has been.

In fact, while he was attending the Ohio State Highway Patrol Academy, the draft of his graduation commission came back with the name Rick Dean Mullins printed across it.

He stood up.

Raised his hand.

And respectfully told them it was wrong.

Not because one version sounded better than another.

Because his name mattered.

They corrected it.

That may seem like a tiny story.

It isn't.

Because when someone has spent years losing pieces of themselves...

their name matters more than ever.

Every morning, my husband wakes up in a body that doesn't feel like his own.

The man who loved boxing...

who built his life around strength...

who spent hours in a workout room because he genuinely loved it...

who served four years in the United States Navy...

who became an Ohio State Trooper...

who later wore another police badge...

who earned a world championship with a Martin guitar in his hands...

now struggles to hold a napkin.

If you've never lived through a disease or injury that changes your body...

it's difficult to explain.

The hardest part isn't simply losing the ability to do something.

It's waking up inside someone you don't recognize.

And wondering where you went.

One lyric has always been especially difficult for me.

"When the hands that once fought...
Can't answer the call."

People often assume that's poetic.

It isn't.

It's literal.

One day, Ricky's phone rang.

It was his youngest brother.

His hands simply wouldn't work.

By the time he managed to answer...

the call was gone.

Instead, there was a voicemail.

One that would wound him more deeply than I believe his brother - as well as his other two siblings - will ever care about.

There were four things, in particular, he said in the voicemail (and left 9 more harassing voicemails over the following 2 days):

1. "You're both idiots."

2. "We're gonna block you from calling mom and we're going to instruct the hospital, as well, to block you."

3. "You guys can sit down there and rot for all I care."

4. "Enjoy your miserable little lives." (This, coming from the brother that has played guitar with Ricky his whole life - - and knows that Ricky can't play his music anymore, not to mention, has lost his freedom and independence of walking - completely.

This was after Ricky and I had gone to Ohio, at their request, to live with his mom indefinitely so that I could help care for her AND Ricky. His brother and sister never one time relieved me or gave me a break. His mom had been diagnosed, while we were there, with dementia. We had some extremely difficult times because of it. The stress took a toll on my mental health and a large toll on Ricky's health with his MS. Therefore, after 2 1/2 months, I made the difficult decision to bring us back home to Tennessee. Ricky's health will always be my number one concern.

And after all we sacrificed to go 2 states away - a very grueling trip for Ricky - this was the voicemail he left...only because Ricky couldn't get the phone situated in his hands in time.

His disease prevented him from answering.

The voicemail became another reminder that sometimes MS steals far more than movement.

Sometimes...

it steals moments that can never be given back.

There is another grief hidden inside this song.

One I almost didn't write about.

But it explains these lines.

"When love gets blocked off...
It is grief, not a choice."

People often think grief only happens after someone dies.

It doesn't.

Sometimes grief begins while everyone is still alive.

For nearly fifteen years, Ricky talked with his mother throughout the day.

Not once.

Five...

sometimes ten times...

every single day.

Then...

nothing.

Not because he stopped loving her.

Not because she stopped loving him.

Because circumstances outside either of their control - his siblings - separated them.

I watched the strongest man I've ever known cry every morning.

Sometimes quietly.

Sometimes in heartbreaking sobs.

For months.

Then for another year.

Eventually the tears came less often.

Not because the pain disappeared.

Because grief learned to live beside him.

That lyric isn't about blame.

It's about loss.

When love is blocked...

the heart still loves.

The only thing left to do is grieve.

One of my favorite lines in the entire song is also the simplest.

"But your soul is still standing.
It still looks like you."

That wasn't written to sound beautiful.

It was written because it's true.

MS has taken so much from my husband.

It has never taken him.

The same humor.

The same kindness.

The same stubbornness.

The same enormous heart.

The same man I fell in love with twenty-eight years ago.

He is still here.

Sometimes he just needs someone to remind him.

People often ask me where the title came from.

Only Believe.

Those two words have quietly followed me for most of my life.

Growing up, my mom had the Serenity Prayer hanging on the wall.

Its message settled into me long before I understood why.

Accept what you cannot change.

Change what you can.

And have the wisdom to know the difference.

Somewhere along the way, my own version became just two words.

Only Believe.

Not because life is easy.

Not because everything works out the way we hoped.

But because worrying about what cannot be changed has never healed a single heart.

Believing...

sometimes does.

So when MS arrived...

when dreams disappeared...

when family relationships broke...

when freedom became a memory instead of a reality...

those were the words I kept coming back to.

Only believe.

Believe there is still joy ahead.

Believe there are still new passions to discover.

Believe love is bigger than disease.

Believe hope has not left the room.

Believe that one day, somehow, things will be all right.

People often call me Ricky's caregiver.

That's true.

But I don't think caregiving begins with wheelchairs.

Or medicine.

Or helping someone get dressed.

I think it begins much earlier.

It begins by protecting someone's heart when life tries to convince them they are no longer themselves.

That's what Only Believe really is.

Not a song about Multiple Sclerosis.

A love letter.

A reminder.

A promise whispered to the man I still see every single day.

The disease may have changed his body.

But it never changed the reason I fell in love with him.

And every time I sing those two words...

I'm really saying one thing.

"Ricky Dean... I still see you." ❤️

~ Michelle Mullins ~
Founder & Creative Director
Amplified Imagination Studios

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