on performing

I’m writing this on the N train, currently performing the part of restaurant server. All black attire—trading my usual yellow or silver shoes for black New Balances. All black. Dim it.

“All color, bring up the stage lights,” I remember my voice teacher, Diane, instructing the crew. Nervously excited, we stood ready to run our dress rehearsal. This was my first time performing outside musical theatre—something I grew up doing as a kind of two-for-one activity for my parents, corralling my brother and me into the same space. I liked the singing, the stories. That’s what eventually led me to songwriting.

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on callbacks: where we've been and where we're going

I’m realizing that what truly resonates with us often lies in callbacks—whether it’s a joke, a memory, or a dream. The way something returns to us, carrying new meaning, is where the real impact happens.

As I write my third album, it’s becoming a collection of love songs—both to this dream of mine and to my partner. I’m constantly calling back to themes and moments from my earlier records. Clementines, which symbolize romanticized hope in Protagonist, now appear again. This time, I’m writing about laying a blanket next to a clementine bush with my partner, wondering if the flowers are really that vibrant or if life just seems brighter when you're with the right person.

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on the ones that keep us going

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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on my latest creation

When I first moved to New York, I lived in a communal house with nine other people. A few days in, a roommate asked me what it felt like to walk into a room the way I did. I didn’t know what he meant. “This confidence, this assurance,” he said.

I was reminded of this at dinner a few nights ago when I walked in to meet a friend. He immediately said, “If I could only have your confidence.” I hadn’t said a single word. In fact, I had spent the walk to the restaurant thinking about my upcoming birthday and how it made me miss the parties my parents used to throw for me. Internally, "confident" wouldn’t have made the list of how I was feeling.

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I’m realizing that most of my boiling-over anxiety stems from having my feet on the ground of this reality, instead of floating in the magical clouds of the dreams my mind has created. Fantasies need boundaries, just like any healthy relationship.

I’m working to train myself to see that the monotony of everyday repetition is the grit required to manifest the vision that my insatiable thirteen-year-old self sketched out, now working to make 3-D.

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on racing against yourself

I’ve always seen music as a race—a relentless sprint to outrun the versions of myself that stray off course or distract me. A year ago, I was so focused on my path that any plan outside of it seemed irrelevant. I became a runner in the physical sense around eighteen, and it’s a habit I’ve kept up, dipping into races now and then.

This Saturday, I’m running a half marathon in Prospect Park. The last one I ran was in 2022, just before graduating college. Back then, I wore invisible armor, especially around my kidneys, shielding myself from anything that might pierce through. I threw myself into everything campus life offered, staying up past midnight only to wake at 6am to train. I entered that race with confidence and finished with pride.

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on money and maybes

So I’d imagine that if I were ever involved in some freak accident and needed to cover my hospital fees, I’d be relieved to realize that my $250 monthly insurance payment would leave me with an affordable co-pay and months of bed rest.

But no freak accident has come from my two-year stint in New York, so every time I get notified of my Fidelis auto payment, I wince. “Who are you, and why are you taking all my money?” I ask the faceless entity draining my account.

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on the village

Writing today from Culver City.

Just back from a run around the neighborhood that raised me, I’m typing while trying to keep my sweaty hands off the keyboard, resting my forearms on my mom’s office desk in what used to be my brother’s room. Across the hall is what was once my childhood bedroom, now the guest room, with floral bedding swapped for a dark grey, unassuming duvet.

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on new spaces and old, wise voices

I’m sitting in the living room of our new apartment, rocking in a camping chair, staring at my smudged chalkboard that announces my next New York show, “Rockwood, August 19th.” This chair and a mattress are all we have. I've put up a picture of A dunking a basketball where our future TV will go, trying to fill the emptiness.

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on the fear of failure

The landslide that brings you down after seeing your reflection in the snow-covered hill is the fear of failure. Mine sometimes feels so easy to fall into that I swear I can feel the drop in my stomach. I feel it now.

This risk is a ferocious beast that appears in the eyes of well-intended adults who are too familiar with the realities of our cruel world to encourage a dreamer.

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on surrendering to change

My hair has always shed profusely. Dark, thick, curly hair that I cut into bangs just to straighten, burn, and miss the curls. Now, sitting in my boyfriend’s parents' dining room, I spot a clump of my hair in the corner. Oops.

Shedding hair, shedding skin. I remember peeling sunburns as a kid, fearing my skin would never grow back. Now, I worry my writing won’t come back after a few weeks off.

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on knowing when the grass will never be greener

Perhaps the stars I see at random are remnants of the pain I inflicted on them when I stared at the most vibrant green grass I'd ever seen as a teenager. I stood atop a mountain of who I thought I was, having saved my allowance to buy books on biology and medicine, certain I’d become a surgeon. I knew I'd marry by 28 and have three kids, their names written in a purple sparkle gel pen in my diary.

It burned my eyes, but I couldn’t look away. The wind blew through my hair as I squinted, making it seem as though I had my eyes closed. My parents were unsure whether to bring me back to where I felt I belonged or buy me sunglasses.

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on remembering who you are amidst insurance payments

I miss singing without thought. Singing for fun. Humming along to my favorite artists without wondering how many years they put in before seeing success, how many times they almost walked away, or who brought them back on the path.

I miss writing in my childhood bedroom. The ease that came with rhyme. Writing a song in an hour. I miss writing a song just to write it, without immediately thinking about its commercial potential.

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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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