While writing *"I Remember"*, it wasn't simply a song—it was a return to the people and places that shaped me. Every word transported me to old friends, long gone, and to the weight of those years.
*"I Remember"* is a musical act of remembering. Not just laughter and light, but all of it: the chaos and the calm. It holds the the sound of trees creaking at dusk.
The melody is a thread that ties me to my past self. And in singing it, I give breath to those who shaped me.
That's why I became an artist. Not through some career ambition, but because the silence inside me needed form. Trauma, memory, identity—they needed space. And that's what sculpture became: a conversation with the past.
Sculpture taught me patience. Unlike words, form stays. I learned to shape pain, to take what was buried and make it visible. Each sculpture is a way of saying: *I survived this, and I remember*.
This life as an artist isn't about perfection. It's about connection. Different mediums, same truth. When I can't carve, I sing. When I can't sing, I write. And when all I can do is breathe and be still—I listen. That, too, is art.
One line that anchors me through it all:
**"Because of you, I am; and because of me, you are."**
That's what *"I Remember"* means to me. It's not just my voice—it's a gift back.
When I sing it, I think of the way my people carried me. I think of the ancestors whose breath I carry.
I remember.
And in doing so,
I live.
When the chords rise and fall, you're not just hearing me—you're hearing my journey. It's not performance—it's a return. A healing. A remembering.
And that's what my art is always trying to do.
