A hobby of mine is diving deep into the careers of artists before they broke out into commercial success—before they were deemed “new,” despite pounding down doors for ten years. I learn about their cousins, neighbors, grocery store clerks, and the one person who kept showing up as their crowd shrank from 100 to 22 to 49 to 10. Then hit 50,000.

I remember the exact moment I told my dad I was going to be a singer. I was washing dishes after dinner one night when I turned and said, “Dad, I just know I’m going to be a singer.” I must have been thirteen. He responded in the most anticlimactic, supportive, and realistic way a parent could. No questioning, no cautionary tone from years of life experience. Just a simple “okay” that let me know he’d heard me. It was the end of the conversation, but the beginning of his unwavering support. He’s met almost everything I’ve brought to him since—whether about music or life—with that same “okay,” followed silently by “I love you, I’m here.”

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