Taking Up Space

Maxum Doucette

The stage lights burned hot against Daisy’s skin. The smell of beer and cigarettes burned her nose, and the sweat dripping from her forehead stung her eyes. She couldn’t make out any faces in the sea of people; the lights made that impossible. However, she could feel the raw emotion and the feminine rage of the fans in the pit. There was an electricity in the air, buzzing with the energy of a crowd of twenty-something-year-old-women with smudged eyeliner, fishnets, DIY shirts, and tangled hair from moshing and dancing.

Being the epicenter of the band, she not only watched but could feel her bandmates and the crowd moving their bodies to her rhythm, like they were entranced by her and incapable of staying still. Her four limbs felt as if they were connected to the drums; the sticks and pedals, simply an extension of herself.

On the first of February, 2025, one of Daisy’s bands, Women In Peril, was poised to open during the Something In The Way Festival in Boston, Massachusetts. Opening for headliners American Football, Soccer Mommy, and Slowdive, the band couldn’t be more excited for this opportunity to kick off the show. The security guard gave a nod, and the band fell into step behind him. Daisy clenched her sticks, following the rest of the band, their instruments slung over their shoulders. Her nerves were coiled tight. The security guard cleared a path, but the crowd pressed close, brushing shoulders, tossing glances.

For women in rock music, the tension between nerves and exhilaration is something many experience, with the weight of stepping into a male-dominated space where judgment is harsher, and expectations often higher. A study by the Institute for Women in Music found that women performers often face more scrutiny than their male counterparts, with their talents questioned and their appearances under a microscope. But despite this, there is a powerful connection between the artist and the audience that transcends the discomfort, a sense of empowerment from owning the stage.

Finally on stage, Women In Peril launched into the set, hammering through their first five songs with passion and energy, the crowd a dim blur beneath the stage lights.

Then, it happened.

The house lights snapped on, and Daisy could see them. What had started as a modest room with few scattered fans was now a sea of faces stretched to the back of the room. Daisy felt like she’d stepped into a dream — foreign, thrilling, and a little ridiculous.

Before discovering her passion for drumming, Daisy was an avid skateboarder. At the age of 12, she took a nasty spill while trying to jump over a rope on her school playground, resulting in a broken arm. The injury sidelined her from skating, but would lead her toward a new, even more powerful creative outlet: music. About a year later, Daisy and her family travelled from northern New Jersey to Boston to visit her grandfather in a nursing home.

Dull, gray light filtered through the thin curtains of the hotel room. The rain tapped against the windows, adding to the thick, humid air that made everything feel damp. Daisy instantly felt the weight of the day hanging in the air as she awoke. The thought of her grandfather dying in a nursing home just a few miles away made her stomach ache. It was hard to wrap her mind around the reality of it, she needed something or someone to lift the fog.

“There’s a music college nearby,” her stepdad said to her, breaking the dreary, uncomfortable silence, “Wanna go check it out?”

She often describes her relationship with her stepfather as “tumultuous.”

“He’s just a guy,” she’d say, almost shrugging it off — a simple, complicated truth that carried both frustration and forgiveness. Yet, there he was, having noticed her interest in drumming, he extended an olive branch in the form of a campus visit that would change the trajectory of her life.

Rain lightly fell on Daisy’s face as she stood on the edge of the bustling Boston street beside her stepdad. The city pulsed around them, but her focus was fixed on the main building of Berklee College of Music. Remember this place, she told herself, trying to freeze the moment in her mind like a snapshot. The rain, the traffic, and the anticipation in her chest. She could feel the energy radiating from the building, like music was alive inside and leaking through the walls. Even then, at thirteen years old, she knew that this was where she needed to be.

She didn’t know yet what it would really mean to step into that world. At thirteen, all she could feel was possibility. Years later, behind a drum kit in a New Jersey bar, that dream collided with reality.

Daisy was checking levels, the thump of her bass drum resonated off the walls, her bandmates, all guys, chatting and setting up their gear. The sound guy’s voice cracked through the monitor: “Shut the fuck up,” he snapped. “You’re playing too loud.”

She looked up, a little startled but composed. “I don’t think I’m playing too loud. This is how I play,” she said, firm but calm. “And even if I was, you could ask me to play softer respectfully.”

He paused, then muttered, “I’m actually surprised you can hit that hard and play that well,” before walking off like nothing had happened.

Her guitarist turned to her. “What was that?”

She just shook her head. “This is what it’s like,” she said. “This is what it looks like.”

For female musicians, especially drummers, the obstacles aren’t always obvious. They creep in through the offhand comments, the disbelief in their abilities, and the surprise when they’re tagged “actually good.” Drumming has long been coded as masculine, loud, and unapologetic, making women like Daisy feel like they constantly need to go above and beyond to prove themselves to the world.

Every rehearsal, every soundcheck, and every show became an act of pushing back against a world that had never quite made room for her. Even at Berklee — the place she’d dreamed of since she was thirteen.

During an ensemble rehearsal, the harsh, fluorescent lights buzzed above her, bright and unflattering. There were no windows, just blank walls and cold linoleum. The room was supposed to be about creating music with peers, but it felt more like a fishbowl. She adjusted her kit quietly, feeling the eyes in the room. All guys.

Then the instructor walked in, voice booming, presence big. He made his way over to her kit, too close, and she caught the scent of his cologne, sharp and chemical. Before she could say anything, he reached past her and began adjusting her cymbal stand. She had just finished adjusting the kit the way she liked it.

“I had it where I wanted it,” she said.

What frustrated her most wasn’t just what he did. It was the fact that it affected her playing. Be the bigger person, she reminded herself. That’s what women are told to do. Laugh it off. Don’t make a scene. Just play. It was a small moment, one that would be easy to brush off, but it stuck. All of these interactions continued to add up.

According to the Institute for Women in Music, moments like this are common. Women musicians are often subject to subtle but persistent challenges to their autonomy, especially in male-dominated settings. These interactions don’t just affect confidence; they shape how women learn, lead, and teach music.

That’s why Daisy teaches the way she does now. She has many private students, the majority of them young women. While teaching a lesson, she notices one of her students checking out. Her eyes are glazed, her grip is weak, her posture is slouched. Daisy knew the young girl’s busy schedule: school, sports, homework, and now drum lessons. It was too much. It took the fun out of the music. She thought about what it might have meant, back when she was younger, to have someone notice the burn out, and not correct her form, but shift the approach.

“Let’s work on dynamic control,” Daisy said, switching gears. They tossed out the technique and warm-ups, and spent the lesson playing songs the girl actually liked. Daisy didn’t nitpick her technique. Instead, she shouted encouragement between songs: “Hit harder! Hit harder!” The girl began to come alive. Her spine straightened. Her arms moved with intent. She started playing like she meant it, and had a blast in the process.

Studies in music education have found that encouragement from mentors, especially those who validate expression over perfection, significantly increases a young musician’s confidence and long-term engagement with music. This effect is even more pronounced in young girls, who often drop out of music programs when they don’t see themselves represented or feel supported. Daisy wasn’t just teaching rhythm, she was un-teaching silence. Giving the girl room to be loud, to release, and to take up space without apology. Moments like these remind Daisy why she’d stuck with it. Why she kept playing even when it was hard, when it felt like there wasn’t space for her.

Two stages faced each other, volleying sets back and forth like a conversation. As Women In Peril stepped off stage, sweaty and breathless, the next band on the opposing stage was already kicking off their set, while the third group scrambled to set up gear on the first stage. It was a frenzy. Amps being unplugged, gear getting kicked aside, cables tangled underfoot. Daisy was flustered, rushing to pack up her drum kit as bodies moved in all directions. She could see her breath as she hauled the last of her gear to her car. The night air was sharp and cold; the chill hit her like a slap. her skin still burning from the heat of the stage lights and the adrenaline of the set. She felt blissful and wired, unsure whether the set had been great or not, buzzing with the memory of what just happened, as if it wasn’t even real.

Her family had come. That almost never happened. Seeing them see her—really see her—meant everything. This wasn’t just another gig at some bar. It was a reminder of how far she’d come, and why she stayed with it. She was glad they saw her like this: sweaty, glowing, and entirely in her element. Glad they saw her taking up space. Because that’s what she’s always been doing. Whether behind the kit, in a rehearsal room, or teaching a young girl to hit hard. She kept going, not just for herself, but for every girl who might one day need to be told that loud is beautiful, and power is something you don’t have to apologize for or be afraid of.

That cold night air, gear stowed, heart racing, Daisy knew: this was the life she had built. It was all worth it.

Born in Weymouth, Massachusetts, in 2003, Maxum began playing drums at age six. After moving to Missoula, Montana in 2013, she immersed herself in percussion through school, performing with several bands, teaching, and studying percussion at the University of Montana. In 2025, after returning home to Massachusetts to grow as both an artist and person, she began studying at Berklee College of Music.