Barely Scratching the Surface

The day I realized I wasn't hearing my singing voice I was hearing my mind.

People often ask me when my healing journey began.

They expect me to talk about therapy, a breakthrough conversation, or a moment when everything suddenly made sense.

Instead, I tell them about a recording studio in December 2020.

The world had come to a standstill because of the COVID-19 pandemic. Everywhere I looked, people were speaking about isolation, loneliness, anxiety, and depression. For many, it was the first time they had experienced life slowing down.

For me, it felt strangely familiar.

The isolation everyone else was trying to understand was a place I had lived in for years. Emotionally, I already knew what it felt like to be alone with my thoughts. But while the world was being overwhelmed by isolation, something unexpected was happening inside me.

I was beginning to come alive.

December 2020 marked the first time I stepped into a recording studio. It was more than a studio session—it was the fulfillment of a dream I had carried since high school. Standing in front of that microphone, headphones over my ears, I felt something I hadn't felt in a long time.

Freedom.

Not because all my problems had disappeared, but because a part of me that had been silent for so long had finally found a way to speak.

Then came the demo.

Most people would have listened to the vocals or the melody.

I listened to something else.

For the first time, I heard my voice.

Not my singing voice.

My mind.

It's difficult to explain, but hearing those songs felt like listening to years of unspoken thoughts finally breathe. My journals, emotions, questions, and silent conversations had somehow transformed into music.

For an entire week, I fell asleep listening to my own songs.

Not because I was impressed by my voice.

But because I was amazed that the thoughts living inside me had found a language outside of me.

It was one of the most beautiful experiences of my life.

After that, the songs wouldn't stop coming.

They came while I was mopping the floor.

While making my bed.

While washing dishes.

While cleaning the house.

Ordinary chores became creative moments because my mind had become too full to stay silent. I often joke that my lips had to crack open just to let the thoughts out.

Looking back now, I realize music became my first form of emotional release. Before I fully understood trauma, healing, or even my own mental health, I had already started processing my experiences through songwriting.

Then came 2021.

Suddenly, I was doing radio interviews. Television interviews. Performing my music and introducing myself to people who had never met me before.

I was excited.

But I was also afraid.

Somewhere along the way, I had become deeply withdrawn. Speaking to people, especially about myself, felt uncomfortable. Yet there was another part of me that refused to disappear—the naturally social girl who had always loved connecting with people.

Every interview became an act of reclaiming that part of myself.

I wasn't just promoting music.

I was reclaiming my voice.

Looking back now, I smile at that version of me. She thought she was finally telling her story.

She had no idea she was only barely scratching the surface.

There was still so much healing ahead.

So much understanding.

So much purpose waiting to unfold.

And maybe that's what healing really is.

Not one defining moment, but a series of discoveries that slowly reveal who you've been beneath the surface all along.

This is where my story begins.