Katie Crutchfield has traveled a long way in a few short years — much further than the geographical distance from Waxahatchee Creek in her native Alabama to the home studio and elementary school gymnasium in small-town Holbrook, Long Island, where she recorded her new album, Ivy Tripp. By now, most are familiar with the songwriter’s seemingly overnight ascent from writing and recording her trembling debut, American Weekend, while snowed in for a week in her parents’ home to becoming a critical darling following the release of 2013’s Cerulean Salt. But it feels cheap to measure Crutchfield’s journey as Waxahatchee in terms of glowing notices, the “right kind” of buzz, or social media upticks. Turn on those records and she’s still that closeted, bruised voice inching out onto an emotional ledge (“I think I love you”) only to immediately retreat (“But you’ll never find out”), or a dissatisfied twentysomething calculating that she is “30 percent dead” and lamenting, “We’d never see the same blue sky.” She’s tapped into the fact that while stumbling through one’s 20s may seem like small steps in grander schemes, they’re giant, confusing leaps for the person actually negotiating those years. On Ivy Tripp, Crutchfield creeps further into adulthood, expanding both her outlook and sound without losing the intimacy that endeared her to us in the first place.