on fantasizing about the subtleties of success

Reality: I witness an e-bike collide with a woman as I busk on Union Square East. The two exchange curses and then continue on. Onlookers and I stare, concerned, and then continue on. I announce my latest single into a battery-powered amp about ten times, and then continue on. 

But he doesn’t. He hears me speak about Find Someone Else, and my upcoming album Protagonist. He hears me as I invite listeners to integrate the songs into their own New York narratives. He searches for me on Spotify and presses play.

He stops into Panineria and gets his usual meatball sub. Back at his office, he opens Bumble, chuckles at finding a familiar face from high school, and debates whether to swipe. Lost in thought, he realizes he’s finished his sandwich. Missing the carefree days of his youth, he swipes right and returns to work. 

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on finding someone else

I’ve always been too possessive to walk away. Too committed to leave. I claim ownership before things even know my name, a trait that's driven me down this industry path for years. And a trait that’s been detrimental. 

Always a fierce competitor, I remember winning tug-of-war for the first time at Summer Camp and it hitting my veins like white wine. I've always sacrificed comfort for the thrill of the chase, and when focused, I'm unstoppable. But when misdirected, I become as vulnerable as a forgotten toy, weathered and wanting.

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on reframing what success means in the music industry

In the cottage of my mind, the word "numbers" occupies a white room, stark and clinical. White furniture fills the space, yet it doesn't overwhelm, leaving just enough room for you to wander, tricking you into believing you might find depth in the shallowness, but never quite enough to grasp it fully. In the realm of music, numbers mirror logic in love—they offer guidance but lack the soulful essence of the craft.

I thought I’d turned out the light in the numbers room when I decided to pull from creating and posting social media content a few weeks ago, but I’ve since realized this illumination is perpetual. The idea of sidestepping numbers entirely in an industry that treats them as the key to enter some grand mansion castle (while I prefer the comfort of my cottage), is naive. I have to acknowledge the game I’m playing, as much as I actively write my own rules. 

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on listener zeroes

I set up my makeshift stage under the same tree in Central Park where I'd been the day before. I face a mix of New Yorkers seeking solace on benches, their vibrant attire and wireless earbuds blinding and deafening the scene. I walk up with my "lug" strapped on—a musician's game of how much gear we can haul in one trip—unfolding my chalkboard first. The board boasts the upcoming Mercury Lounge gig I’m playing on June 19th. Each smudge of chalk on my lower calf is a fitting metaphor of this journey etched into my skin. 

As I begin to set up, some of the bench occupants shuffle away, wary of the slew of expectations that might accompany my presence. I start to sing, looking for "listener zeroes" - the first people to look my way during a song, allowing me into their busy agendas. The people who choose to bet on a stranger, to stand where a crowd isn’t. Listener zero for song one greets me warmly, a familiar face from the day before. “Welcome back! I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says. 

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on bursting the social media bubble

Bubbles.

"Do y’all have any bubbles laying around?" I asked my boyfriend's parents as I returned to their Yonkers house, my morning run more of a mental workout on career intricacies than a physical feat.

The night prior, inside the Subaru we drove across the country, I propped up my phone to capture myself lip-syncing to the chorus of "Don’t Die In Me". There I sat, staring into the camera from the driver's seat, no seatbelt fastened because, of course, I wasn’t going anywhere. But that’s just the artist's playbook these days. Market your song from the comfort of a car. It's meant to resonate, to feel familiar. It's what the label would prescribe. So, I recorded, spent 20 minutes syncing the lyrics, then shared the snippet.

Bubbles.

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on the big, scary corporate monster

An Beal Bocht Cafe, which translates to “The Poor Mouth Cafe,” hosts an open mic ten minutes from where I’m staying in Yonkers. I head over as I feel the pressures of adulthood in my chest. It’s almost as if I find a big, scary corporate monster at every corner urging me to put my dreams aside for a stable salary and benefits. Talk about a Poor Mouth. 

Tuesday nights draw the Riverdale community to An Beal Bocht, turning the cozy cafe into a bustling music venue. I walk in and overhear someone venting about their landlord, and another about an unexpected pregnancy. I get a beer knowing I don’t want it.

I stopped performing in an effort to build a fan base in a way that aligned with today’s industry. People don’t go to music venues to discover music anymore. It’s too convenient to look to social media as a means of discovery, so I thought I’d play into that by putting up a free-standing door in an array of cities. Turns out the only thing that did was drown my psyche in numbers and the impossible task of solving an algorithm that was built to be unsolvable. 

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on sustaining advocacy through disappointment

We packed his Subaru to the brim with everything he owned and began our road trip across the country. "Be present," I reminded myself. We meticulously planned every second of the trip: National Parks, glamping, Meow Wolf, and his 30th birthday in Nashville. I also planned to release the second single from my upcoming album mid-trip to stay consistent with my releases.

But when I released that single during our journey, I was a wreck. "How could I be so naive? How could I do this to myself? To the music?" Driving from LA to New York, surrounded by breathtaking scenery and deepening our love, I intentionally missed my self-imposed deadlines for filming promotional content and PR outreach in an attempt to stay present.

I had done almost nothing to support the song. The time, passion, and money I invested felt wasted. I felt embarrassed and ashamed for not advocating for the music and myself in the way I had intended to.

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