Maggie Lindemann on “I Feel Everything”

“I’m finally just now saying, okay, I’m ready to go home,” laughs Maggie Lindemann, midway through touring, running on little sleep and a steady rotation of late-night McDonald’s. There are only two shows left, back-to-back, and it’s starting to hit. “But I’ve been having the best time.”

It’s that mix of exhaustion and excitement that sits at the heart of I Feel Everything. The title lands exactly how it sounds, direct, a little overwhelming, and completely intentional. There’s no attempt to soften what’s inside it. Just a full range of emotions, moving from one extreme to the next.

For Lindemann, that tone was set early on. “I was just in such an emotional and hard time in my life,” she says. “I definitely knew it was going to be an emotional album.” As the process went on, that feeling only deepened, shaping the project into something more personal than anything she’s released before.

There’s often this expectation that pop music has to sit neatly in one lane. It either leans into something light or something heavier. This album moves between both without forcing a divide. Tracks like spine and one of the ones feel specific and lived-in, while others carry a kind of chaotic energy that keeps things moving.

A lot of that comes down to where Lindemann processes things in the first place. “I’m really not an emotional person in real life,” she says.

I’m not outwardly emotional. Writing is where I go to release all of that.

It’s less about holding things back and more about where they come out. Conversations might stay surface level, but lyrics don’t. “I have a harder time speaking my feelings,” she adds. “Writing them is very easy.”

That openness takes on a different weight on split, one of the album’s most striking tracks. The song leans into that internal push and pull between growth and self-sabotage, but it also touches on something Lindemann hasn’t explored much before. Writing about someone else, and knowing people might recognise exactly who it is.

“I’ve never really written songs about anyone else before,” she says. “So doing that, knowing people could figure it out… that was really hard.”

She pauses for a second before continuing. “I’m a very private person. I don’t like putting other people’s business out there either.” There’s a tension in that, between wanting to be honest and wanting to protect what’s personal. “But at the same time, it’s like… no, this happened. I’m allowed to write about it.”

That same honesty runs even deeper on mourning, a track that feels almost too detailed to be written after the fact. It wasn’t. “I was still in the relationship when I wrote that,” she says. “I was going to the studio, writing songs like that, and then going home and trying to be normal.”

There’s something disorientating about that, processing something through music before it’s fully unfolded in real life. “I knew what was coming,” she says. “I was writing about it more than I was talking about it.”

Looking back, it makes sense. The songs became a way of working through things quietly, without needing to confront them directly at the time.

Even with all that weight, the album doesn’t start there. fang opens everything up with a completely different energy. It feels loose, nostalgic, almost like a snapshot of a version of her life that sits further back.

“I wanted it to start really fun,” she says. “Like being out, being drunk, just having a good time.” From there, it shifts gradually, moving toward something heavier before landing on the title track at the end. “I wanted it to feel like we start happy, and then end on something more powerful.”

It’s not essential to listen in order, she admits, but there’s a reason it’s set up that way. The album moves like a timeline, even if it doesn’t spell it out directly.

For someone who shares so much in her music, Lindemann keeps the process itself surprisingly close. Finished songs aren’t immediately passed around or played to friends. “I literally don’t play my music for anyone,” she says, laughing. “You have to ask.”

It wasn’t always like that. Over time, she’s become more selective about what she shares and when. “I think I’ve just become very private,” she says. “I keep more serious things to myself.”

That includes music. Sometimes even the people closest to her don’t hear it until it’s already out in the world. “People forget I’m even a singer,” she says. “Then they come to a show and they’re like… wait.”

Being on tour has shifted her relationship with the songs in ways she didn’t expect. Some tracks she thought would stay close have started to feel distant, while others have taken on new meaning through the crowd.

“Some of the songs I thought would be really emotional… I feel nothing for them now,” she says. “I think I’m just so past it.” There’s no regret in that, more a sense of moving forward. “Fan interactions change everything too,” she adds. “That can completely change how I see a song.”

And then there’s the UK crowds. “London went crazy,” she says, smiling. “People were crowd surfing, moshing… it was insane.” The energy feels immediate, physical, something you have to meet head-on. “Everyone goes hard here.”

It’s a long way from where things started. Pretty Girl first took off almost a decade ago, back when Musical.ly was still the platform pushing it forward. “I was like 17, turning 18,” she says. “I had no creative direction at all.”

At the time, it didn’t matter. She said yes to everything. Now, it’s the opposite. “I’m so strict about everything,” she says. “The way the music sounds, the way I dress, everything has to match.” That control has come with time, along with a clearer understanding of what works and what doesn’t. “It’s okay to say no,” she adds. “That’s something I had to learn.”

Staying grounded in an industry that constantly demands change isn’t always straightforward. Trends move quickly, attention shifts even faster, and there’s always pressure to keep evolving. For Lindemann, it comes back to something simple.

This is who I am, it’s not like I’m trying to figure out a character.

That clarity makes decisions easier. It removes the need to constantly second guess or adjust. “I just try not to read too much,” she adds. “And focus on things that actually make me happy.”

Some songs come and go in the setlist. Others stay. When asked which ones she can’t imagine dropping, she doesn’t hesitate. “Scissorhands,” she says. “And Self Sabotage.”

The ones that still feel right, even after everything else has shifted.

By the time the tour ends and she finally makes it home, the songs will keep moving, taking on new meanings, losing others. That’s part of it. What matters is that they were honest when they needed to be.

Once it’s written, it’s no longer just yours. It moves on, whether you do or not.