Pamela Hopkins Finds Liberation in the Mirror on “Me Being Me”

Pamela Hopkins "Lord Knows I Ain't No Saint"

You know the kind of song that doesn’t knock—it kicks down the door, pours itself a stiff drink, and dares you to look it in the eye? That’s “Me Being Me” by Pamela Hopkins.

There’s nothing slick here. No shiny veneer, no calculated swagger. Just the raw, unfiltered confessions of a woman who’s been through the fires of self-doubt and disapproval—and walked out not just unburned, but baptized in truth. Hopkins doesn’t perform this song. She exhales it like cigarette smoke in a dim-lit bar where the jukebox still plays Waylon and the ghosts of old promises hang heavy in the air. This one’s personal. You can feel it in every line.

Hopkins first heard “Me Being Me” in the most sacred, unpretentious setting you could imagine: a hospital room. Jim Femino—songwriter, soul searcher, and kindred outlaw—played her a handful of tunes from his hospital bed. Among them was this one. And something about it stuck like a tattoo she hadn’t gotten yet. Something she had to live with a little before letting the world in.

It’s been years, and now she’s ready.

And damn, does it hit.

The lyrics are torn straight from the leather-bound journal of someone who’s been told “you’re too much” for far too long. “Didn’t you used to love that about me?” she asks, half sarcastic, half mourning the truth. The chorus lands like a steel-toed stomp on the chest: “If you don’t like what you see / I don’t know what you want me to tell you, darlin’ / That’s just me / Me being me.” It’s a mantra for the misunderstood, a fist in the face of conformity.

Hopkins’ voice? It’s not just a vocal. It’s a soul transmission. She’s got that smoky, lived-in tone that doesn’t ask for your attention—it commands it. Think of a honky-tonk Stevie Nicks with a little more grit and a lot more “don’t mess with me.” You believe every word because you believe her. This ain’t cosplay country. This is the real deal.

The production is tight, but not over-polished. It’s got the muscle of modern Nashville with the barroom scars of something that could’ve been recorded in Muscle Shoals. Guitars twang and burn, drums march with purpose, and nothing gets in the way of Hopkins’ testimony.

There’s something sacred about a song that lets a woman stand unapologetically in her own shadow and shine anyway. Pamela Hopkins doesn’t just stand—she owns the damn ground. “Me Being Me” is more than a single. It’s a mirror held up to the rebel inside all of us—the voice we silence when the world tells us to soften.

Well, here’s Pamela, turning the volume all the way up.

And this time, she’s not turning it down for anyone.

–Lonnie Nabors