I’m tired. I’m tired. Those of you that I love know who you are. May God bless you.” These were the haunting final words left behind by the immensely talented yet deeply troubled Phyllis Hyman — singer, actress, icon, and ultimately, a casualty of an unforgiving music industry and a society that too often forgets its artists until it’s too late. On June 30, 1995, just a week before her 46th birthday, Hyman took her own life. While her suicide shocked the world, her final note whispered a painful truth: those who claimed to support her may have been the very ones who failed her most.

The Voice That Could Not Be Silenced

Born in Philadelphia in 1949, Phyllis Hyman grew up surrounded by music. With a soaring contralto voice rich in emotional texture, she made a name for herself in the 1970s and 1980s, singing jazz, soul, and R&B with unmatched depth. She worked with legends like Norman Connors, Grover Washington Jr., and even starred on Broadway in Sophisticated Ladies, earning a Tony nomination.

Despite critical acclaim, Hyman never achieved the commercial stardom she deserved. Her music was often considered “too jazzy” for mainstream R&B and “too soulful” for jazz purists. She existed in a liminal space — celebrated, yet marginal. That tension, between brilliance and rejection, would follow her throughout her life and career.

A Life of Struggles, Hidden in Plain Sight

Beneath the glamor and acclaim lay a woman battling deep depression, bipolar disorder, and loneliness. Friends and family knew her as sensitive, generous, and vulnerable. But they also saw her spiral into substance abuse, alcohol dependency, and increasingly dark moods. The music industry’s coldness only deepened her wounds. As trends changed in the 1990s, and younger, more marketable artists took center stage, Phyllis found herself sidelined. She was told she was “too old,” “too dark-skinned,” “too serious,” “too much.”

Her long-standing battles with weight, self-image, and a lack of radio support became unbearable. In interviews, she was candid about the lack of airplay her songs received and how the industry would “only play you once you’re dead.” That sentiment proved prophetic.

The Final Note: A Quiet Scream

When Phyllis Hyman died, she left behind a cryptic suicide note. The official version reads: “I’m tired. I’m tired. Those of you that I love know who you are. May God bless you.” Short, restrained — yet it says so much. Tired of what? Tired of whom?

An unconfirmed but widely circulated version of her note reportedly added: “To all you motherf**ers who didn’t play my music when I was alive — don’t bother playing it now that I’m gone.”* While the authenticity of that quote is debated, its sentiment echoes Hyman’s known frustrations. It strikes at the heart of a question we too often ignore: Who was really there for Phyllis Hyman — and who just watched her fade away?

The phrase “who was after her” doesn’t necessarily mean a literal person seeking her harm. In Hyman’s case, the culprits were systemic — and everywhere. First, there was the music industry itself. Record executives often sought to mold Hyman into someone she was not. Under Arista Records and Clive Davis, she was pushed toward more commercial sounds, away from her jazz roots. She resisted. That resistance cost her.

that refused to play her music consistently, despite her immense talent. Hyman frequently lamented how DJs prioritized trendy, radio-friendly pop over substance. She knew that her music — raw, emotional, mature — didn’t fit neatly into a box. But that didn’t mean it didn’t deserve to be heard.

And then, there was the public’s selective memory. Phyllis Hyman was beloved by those who knew her work, but she never became a household name like some of her peers. In life, she was overlooked. In death, she became a cautionary tale — not because she lacked talent, but because the world lacked the patience and compassion to value her truth.

A Tragic Industry Pattern

Phyllis Hyman is not alone. The music industry has a long and dark history of consuming its most sensitive artists and spitting them out. From Donny Hathaway to Whitney Houston, from Amy Winehouse to Kurt Cobain, the pressure to perform, conform, and produce while battling inner demons is a familiar story.

But what makes Hyman’s case so heartbreaking is how aware she was of her own erasure. Her final album, I Refuse to Be Lonely, was a haunting declaration of defiance. Released posthumously, it reads almost like a suicide note in itself. On tracks like “Why Not Me?” and the title track, she laid bare her soul, pleading to be heard — not remembered, but heard now.

The Aftermath: Playing Her Music After Death

Ironically, after Hyman’s death, many radio stations and publications suddenly “discovered” her again. Obituaries praised her voice; tributes were made; retrospectives aired. But for many fans, this posthumous admiration felt hollow — a last slap in the face to someone who begged to be valued in life.

In her final note, whether through her real words or the apocryphal ones, she made one thing clear: she saw through the industry’s hypocrisy. She understood that only in death would her catalog be taken seriously. And she was right.

What We Must Learn

Phyllis Hyman’s story is not just a tale of personal tragedy. It is a searing indictment of an industry and culture that undervalues emotional honesty, complexity, and maturity — especially in Black women. Her life and death force us to confront how we support our artists, and how we sometimes exploit their pain for entertainment or nostalgia.

We must do better. Not just in honoring legends like Hyman after they’re gone, but in recognizing the warning signs when they’re still with us. Depression is real. Loneliness in the spotlight is real. And talent does not shield anyone from mental illness.

Conclusion: A Voice That Still Haunts Us

Phyllis Hyman left us far too soon. But her voice — velvety, aching, resilient — still speaks. It sings of joy, heartbreak, longing, and quiet strength. And her final note does more than mark an ending. It exposes a hidden truth: that the systems we’ve built to celebrate artists can just as easily destroy them.

Let us not wait until the next Phyllis Hyman leaves a note before we start listening.