I don’t remember a time before music—only small hands on keys, a violin pressed against my shoulder, melodies humming out of me before I understood why. I started writing around ten, maybe earlier, when sound felt like the truest way to speak, and songs became the place where emotion turned into something real, something audible, something alive.

 

I write pop, and I write musical theatre—two worlds that shape me in different ways. One breathes like conversation, one rises like a stage in light. I’m currently building both: an upcoming EP/album that feels like a mirror and a heartbeat, and an original musical that holds an entire story in sound. They grow beside each other like twin constellations, connected but differently bright.

 

Every song begins in a different place. Sometimes at the piano, where chords open like doors. Sometimes through humming, raw and impulsive. Sometimes through violin or guitar, where texture changes the color of thought. And sometimes through virtual instruments—soundscapes blooming like distant cities I haven’t walked yet. Each instrument gives me a new voice, a new way to breathe the same feeling.

 

I write to remember. To soften. To feel more deeply than life alone allows.

Every melody is a memory held to light.

Every lyric is a page of who I’m still becoming.