My first true encounter with music happened in church, through the trembling harmonies of a children's choir. There, I felt the power of voices woven together, the weightlessness of being carried by sound. Later, I picked up a guitar and found that strings could speak too, sometimes more honestly than words. I never followed a linear path. I studied little, but listened deeply. I listened to the world, to what stirs in silence, to the spaces between things. I learned to walk in the dark, trusting music to be my lantern. It still reveals itself to me this way, not as a product to create, but as a presence to receive. I don’t write songs. I translate whispers. I don’t perform. I channel. Music flows through me like water finding its course, shaping itself according to the terrain of emotion. I am not its owner, only its interpreter, its vessel, its voice. I live with it like one lives with a sacred fire: carefully, reverently, and with a certain awe. For me, music is not entertainment. It’s a mirror. A medicine. A map. I use it to make sense of what I carry, and to offer shelter to those who carry the same. I sing because some truths cannot be spoken. I compose because some wounds cannot be seen. Sound becomes my way of holding space, for grief, for joy, for memory, for transformation. If I create, it is to serve. To serve beauty. To serve healing. To serve the light that hides behind the noise. Through music, I don’t escape the world. I enter it more fully. I touch its ache, its wonder, its unbearable tenderness. And in return, I offer vibration. I offer presence. I offer songs that remember for us the parts we’ve forgotten.