Feature: Folded, Not Broken: The Rise of Emotional Intelligence In R&B

The packed crowd at LIV in Las Vegas erupted—not for a bass-heavy banger, but as orchestral strings swelled into the winter-tinged soul of Kehlani’s “Folded”. Debuting the song live for the first time on June 20, the singer-songwriter admitted they were nervous, having not rehearsed. But the audience met their vulnerability with warmth, passionately singing along word-for-word. In a way, the lack of rehearsal felt fitting — “Folded” isn’t a song polished for performance, but an offering rooted in honesty and emotional openness. 

R&B has always been the genre of the heart—bruised, bleeding, yearning, or inviting late-night longing. From "Confessions" of infidelity to begging "On Bended Knee", it’s long celebrated emotional extremes. But lately, something’s shifted. On “Folded,” Kehlani doesn’t crash out—they fold, literally and emotionally. On “Saturn,” SZA doesn’t plot revenge—she floats above it. A growing number of R&B artists, many of them queer, are rewriting the genre’s emotional playbook. They’re unpacking past behavior instead of glamorizing the pain. The heartbreak is still there, but now it’s wrapped in accountability, self-awareness, and emotional growth. This shift feels radical, but also inevitable. Welcome to the era of emotional intelligence in R&B. 

R&B’s roots are tangled with gospel and spirituals: music born from survival, faith, and collective mourning. These songs carried the weight of slavery, migration, heartbreak, and resilience. Pain was never just personal; it was generational. In a genre shaped by so much generational pain, it’s no surprise that many of its most enduring hits have returned again and again to familiar emotional terrain. 

While the NAACP reports ongoing disparities in access to quality health care for Black Americans compared to White Americans, more Black Americans are seeking therapy than ever before. According to the American Psychological Association, therapy rates among Black men rose 25% between 2019 and 2024. Likewise, Black women are on the “cusp of some change” in seeking mental health support, as seeking care is normalized, according to the peer-reviewed Frontiers in Psychology—though there’s still considerable ground to be covered for true equity. 

But a cultural shift is underway, and cycles are beginning to break—thanks in part to the growing openness of public figures around mental health. That shift is echoing in the music. No longer just a sonic balm for trauma, R&B is becoming a space for clarity, softness, and healing. 

In a recent interview with Billboard Philippines, Kehlani explained the headspace behind “Folded”:

“It’s such a grown-up perspective... like, ‘You hurt me and it sucks... But I do have your clothes, and I cared about you enough to fold them.” 

“Folded” reckons with the aftershocks of love not through bitterness, but with grace and humility. Kehlani’s evolution traces back to the criminally underappreciated blue water road, their tender and serene 2022 release Now, the world finally seems ready to meet them there: “Folded” earned Kehlani their highest first-week streaming numbers to date, reaching 13 million global listeners.

The message behind “Folded” extends beyond the lyrics. Director City James shared the treatment for the music video on Instagram, describing it as “a high-style performance piece set in a laundromat reimagined as a divine temple of transformation — a space where women can come to let go, clean up, and level up. In this surreal, fashion-forward visual, the everyday act of doing laundry becomes a metaphor for emotional renewal, healing, and power."

Watch the visuals below.

SZA’s Lana (titled after her birth name, Solána) takes introspection even further. Gone are the urgent calls of CTRL or the distress signals of SOS—Lana is a journal cracked open mid-healing. After delays and leaks, the project arrived as a deluxe sequel to her record-smashing SOS, pushing the album back atop the Billboard 200 for an 11th nonconsecutive week. And it’s no wonder SZA protected this body of work—it might be her most emotionally raw to date.

“Another Life” offers forgiveness without forgetting. “Kitchen” teases desire without delusion. And “Loving Me 4 Me” is a quiet celebration of self-acceptance. Some may dismiss SZA’s confessions—owning the messy truth of being the side chick, or navigating self-esteem spirals—as low-vibrational. But such critiques miss the point. These aren’t indulgences; they’re exorcisms. Lana isn’t haunted by struggle—it’s haunted and healing at once. SZA no longer lets her past search for CTRL or the anxiety of SOS define her. And to borrow a line from Insecure’s Kelli: “You know what that is? Growth.”

Even the genre’s most traditional artists are evolving. The recently engaged Coco Jones grew from lamenting an ex’s return on “Here We Go (Uh Oh)” to self-assured sensuality on her full- length debut, Why Not More?. These changes don’t erase R&B’s drama—but they refine it. 

Similarly “lash tech music” label—a playful jab at contemporary R&B artist like Summer Walker and Jhené Aiko—underscores a point: what’s often dismissed as “aesthetic” is centered in care. Just like getting your lashes or nails done, there’s intentionality, ritual, and vulnerability in these performances of self-care. 

There’s also something distinctly queer about this evolution—not just in identity, but in perspective. Queerness invites fluidity: emotional, romantic, and sonic. Destin Conrad’s Submissive duology isn’t about placing heteronormative roles of power in gay spaces, but about surrendering to emotion. serpentwithfeet sings devotionals soaked in longing and pleasure. kwn’s cinematic soundscape crafts quiet and seductive intimacy. While, Syd’s dreamy cadence offers space for nontraditional love to simply be. 

LGBTQ+ artists aren’t just including queerness—they’re queering the emotional architecture of the genre itself. Their songs don’t rely on binaries or bombast. They whisper instead of shout, and emotions linger rather than climaxing in chaos. 

R&B is still about love, sex, makeups, and breakups—but the lens has changed. These are songs for a generation more educated, more therapized, and more self-aware than any before. Gone are the days when emotional unraveling was the only narrative. Today’s artists dare to reframe hurt —not just to feel, but to process. 

Where its gospel lineage once carried ancestral sorrow and survival, today’s songs cradle new truths: that healing is messy and holy, vulnerability is strength, and it’s okay to embrace softness. In the era of emotional intelligence, R&B doesn’t just make you feel—it helps you understand why. We seek songs that speak to who we’re becoming, not just who we’ve been. And in that shift, R&B doesn’t lose its soul. It deepens it.