I want to start from the beginning.

I so desperately wish I were able to sit each one of you down and tell you all of the little quirks that make me the person I am, the person I was, and the person I am becoming. Maybe one day I'll make a movie.

Let's get started.

I didn't create this magazine because I have it all figured out. I created it because I don't.

From a very young age, I always felt the urge to stand out. But as I got older, I couldn't stomach the thought of being different.

I mirrored others—a lot. I would practice walking like one person and talking like another. I tried imitating different writers. I would torture myself repeatedly trying to shape my whole personality around a specific theme that I longed for. It came to the point where I couldn't even recognize myself anymore. Who was I shaping into? Who did I want to be? I couldn't remember what I was genuinely interested in. I envied that cute, cocky 4-year-old with the raspy voice, bleached-blonde hair, chubby cheeks, and big, wide eyes. I never considered her remarkable or special, but she was funny and talented. Sentences that would be considered rude were hysterical. I had such a quick tone when I received a smaller toy airplane than the one I wanted. Relatives laughed, smirked, and looked around, admiring a little brat. It quickly changed once the rasp was gone. And then there was my Music. It was the first true thing that I had to myself. I never had to fake it or force myself to get stuck in it. It also made it a lot easier to love it when my family loved it too, especially when everyone was cheering you on from the sidelines. They cheered so loudly, it made all the other noise disappear.  

What others found annoying, I found satisfying. I would take the pots and pans out of my parents' freshly organized cabinet, line them up, sit on the floor, and make some noise. I loved it! I also remember, vividly, loving the guitar. I had a small one. A plastic first act acoustic guitar, which seemed to be painted to look like wood for the effect. I brought that thing to my preschool in Medford, Massachusetts, every chance I got. There I sat, performing random little strums for my teachers and peers. I'm still convinced I noticed a lot more at that age than people expected me to. 

My childhood wasn't something others had to avoid during conversation, yet I always felt as if they were. A lot of it was messy when I was a young girl. I want to believe that I saw it for what it was, grasped it, and that I was using my little first act as an escape, but now that I'm nearing adulthood, there is no clear way to explain chaos to a child. 

Details from my early childhood appear different to me now. Some hurt my chest, but some are bright sparks of joy. I smile, remembering the confidence I had when I would ask the bands at restaurants if I could join them on stage.

But somewhere between the innocence of self-practice and the pressure of growing up, I met my harsh inner monologue – The soft, dragged-out sentence, "You'll never be good enough."

Middle school highlighted all of my struggles for me. It's almost like when your wisdom teeth are growing in, but they don't hurt quite yet. I felt weird. I transferred schools, and all of a sudden, I became shy.

Luckily, I outgrew the shy phase a few months into my new school, but out of nowhere, one day in March, I felt like someone had picked me up and dropped me 100 feet into a black hole. Twelve years old, and for the first time in my life, it felt over. Weird!

I couldn't explain what I was feeling at the time, but I can still taste the bland, odd, unfamiliar flavor of food. I would go to bed, close my eyes, and hope that the uncomfortable feeling would be gone by the time my eyes opened again. But when they did, I would remember what I hoped for, and the feeling would come right back into my head.

This was when I started practicing on an old keyboard. But then I stopped. I felt better, but it wasn't until later on. I missed going to the fair in May and spent a lot of time in groups behind grey walls. Then I went back to school, and the year was over.

Oh well. I walked out of 6th grade happy, like all the lights turned back on.

Then summer came, and I attended Berklee College of Music's day sessions camp. It was like puberty for musicians. These 12, 13, and even 10-year-olds were stars. My inner monologue lectured me. But I was too inspired and ecstatic, so tuning her out was easy.

Then, every summer after that until I was 14, I attended these camps and met some of the most talented people I know today.

Going to those camps set me up for big dreams, hope, and an ego. In high school, I felt like a big fish in a small pond. The days were all the same.

I went to a Catholic, private school, and everyone was preppy—but what's funny is that it wasn't even a prep school. It was just khaki pants and polos. Everyone was attending college, either in-state or out of state, and was planning to study nursing, business, or finance. Everyone played a sport. Everyone had a little group. It also felt like everyone knew where they wanted to go by the end of their junior year, or at least by then.

God, I did not want to go to college. If I wanted Music, why would I need college? I hated class. I hated math. I hated reading. I was an educational dead end.

I remembered Berklee—and during school, when everything else felt repetitive, writing was the only thing that managed to spark something in me. I had bursts of inspiration and confidence. Moments when I knew I was meant for something. Then I had moments where my whole being could crash down at any moment.

Berklee was the only school I applied to. I didn't have a backup plan. I didn't want one. Some people saw that as bold; others saw it as naive. No one thought Berklee would give me a career, and honestly, my little voice became everyone else's and even louder. I wasn't good enough.

But if I didn't get in, then they're right. And weirdly, that didn't hurt me. What shocked me more was the idea of settling.

But I did all of the art kid stuff anyway. Application, portfolio, auditions, and, of course, nearly throwing up. I waited 2 months, and then one day outside of Corepower, before my session, I received my acceptance email.

I called everyone. Everyone was happy. It's hard not to be satisfied when everyone is smiling ear to ear, cheering you on, and saying all of the things you wanted to believe about yourself.

I was excited and proud, but deep down, I almost wished I hadn't gotten in, hoping it would make my life easier and spare me from making a decision. But I was proud, and I went.

Everyone at Berklee stood out. Vibes, aesthetics, style. THE TALENT! I had no clothes. I had no vibe. I had no aesthetic.

Luckily, I grew up in Boston and could go home whenever, because my confidence was a band-aid that had just been ripped off. Violently and quickly, with a bit of blood coming off with it.

I couldn't even read Music. Although it was comforting to see how many kids couldn't either.

I couldn't sing. The way I sang, and still do, never felt Berklee quality, but more like shower quality. Funny, how the mind can convince you to dread something. I just wanted to be good enough.

I know I got in. I am so grateful. But I wanted to feel good enough. Compliments mean nothing if your mind refuses to hear them. And if anyone got straight A's, my brain did in that category.

I didn't want to feel seen for some reason. I genuinely believed—and still struggle with—the battle between wanting so desperately to be seen and heard, but at the same time, it feels like I almost want people to validate my intrusive insults.

The emotional waves of debating whether to stay or not piled up like a bunch of bricks. I had all of these reasons to stay, but I also had a ton of reasons why being home felt impossible for me.

Too much to unpack here. Too much routine. Too comfortable with being uncomfortable.

I met amazing people. I recognized students from my camps back when I was younger. I made friends and admired the passion these young students had—piano, drums, guitar—all of it.

I didn't go back for the spring semester of 2023. I wanted a timeout.

I worked, wrote a lot, and practiced guitar and piano. I made a lot of money too, and who hates that?

What I did get out of this, however, were songs that, for the first time in a long time, I felt impressed by. Songs about friendships, trauma, hatred, and anger. Songs that had a specific start and a specific end. I had stories.

And then I drove back to Nashville and knew it was where I wanted to be, despite my issues. I wasn't healed, but it was a lot lighter knowing I didn't have to be yet.

This past year has been entirely different than last time around, I will say that. Not in a bad way, but actually in a way where I have a better understanding of what I need and who I am becoming.

I clench my jaw a lot in some scenarios, still, but I can't have all of my days be good. 

I started noticing hobbies I became interested in. I combined photography, music, art, fashion, and writing, all into one, because if people didn't want to believe in me—and if I didn’t want to believe in myself—at least I have something to show and say, "Here. I created this. It includes my writing, my pictures, and my love for music. I want to help young kids and adults pursue what they love and not give up."

Art is beautiful, and it takes a long time to appreciate it and accept the person you are while growing up.