I was born into a family where guitars hung on the walls instead of picture frames, CDs spun more than the washing machine, and hard rock classics were my lullabies. Music has always been something I drag behind me like a child drags a blanket: worn, beloved, and ever-present.
When I was two, my MP3 player was loaded with Daughtry’s newest hits.
At seven, I played rhythms on pots and pans while my brother strummed a tiny Christmas guitar.
At eight, I wrote my first song.
By eleven, I was teaching myself piano.
At thirteen, I picked up a ukulele.
By fifteen, I was ready for a real guitar.
As a junior in high school, I performed an original song in front of 400 people.
At eighteen, I released my first single to the world.
As a freshman in college, I landed at WRFL.
Each of these moments marks a step in my journey—proof, maybe, of my musicality. But there’s something deeper that defines my relationship with music.
When my father passed away, music didn’t just accompany my life anymore.
It haunted it.
Suddenly, Creed and Nickelback followed me into shopping centers, uninvited echoes from the past. Bands I once loved became ghosts themselves. And in that haunting, music became even more essential.
Now, I play his guitar.
Its strings feel different: heavier, maybe, or just more familiar. Each chord I strum carries a piece of him. I’m not just making music anymore—I’m keeping him alive with every note.