When I was in fifth grade, I invented a word that would define much of my life: shadowline. 

It was the title of my first album, posted on Soundcloud and taken down a few years later. I recorded it through a handheld recording device that I had set-up in the bathroom for echo. In the album cover, I wore a black hoodie that would hang in the closet where I would record the vocals for my first Amazon best-selling single nearly a decade later. The word encapsulated everything that I was beginning to understand about life: that it was mine to create, and that I had the power to explore both the light and the dark. When I close my eyes, I stand in the grass where the sun meets the shade. I breathe freedom in and out, and I channel both the light and the dark into my art. 

Music is not a necessity for me, but a pleasure. It’s a fantasy land where I can play, process, and tell stories. Drawing sonic and lyrical influence from soul siblings like Enya and Evanescence, I sit at my piano and write about the struggles of living with emotional and physical pain. I write about the simplicity of the universe and how anything we desire comes just because we ask for it. I write about murderous lovers living on farms. I write about true love truer smiles sunsets over a white sand beach. To live in this duality is where my heart sings. 

During the COVID lockdown, I released my second album, The Way Out.  (Shadowline is now lost to the internet). It just hit 100,000 streams on Spotify, was added to 92 college radio stations, and had a song on five Amazon charts. 

I’m currently on a journey of transition from the dark, heavy rock of my latest album, The Way Out to the light, auric folk-pop of my next release: a summer of sunsets, hope, heartbreak, and night swims in crystal clear lakes. And still, I walk the shadowline on and on and on. Between the light and the dark, I am.