The Duality of Expression

Art has always been a mirror—and a wound.

It reflects something true, raw, and often unfinished. But it also exposes. Not just the polished product, not just the melody or the brushstroke or the phrase, but something deeper. A part of the artist. Of me.

Most of my work was born out of darkness—during upheaval, heartbreak, or internal spirals I couldn’t name at the time. I’ve written songs and poems in the middle of emotional collapse. I’ve composed music as if each note could stitch me back together. I’ve created not because I felt whole, but because I didn’t.

For a long time, I believed that my creativity needed that suffering. That I had to break to make something worth hearing. I thought that vulnerability--that open wounds, made art matter.

And honestly? Sometimes I still believe it.

But lately, I’ve been trying to unlearn that narrative. Or at least, loosen its grip.

Because I’m starting to see that expression doesn’t only have to come from pain—it can come from peace too. From stillness. From clarity. From simply being. And the art that comes from those spaces isn’t less powerful. It’s just quieter. Less dramatic. Maybe more honest.

There’s something unfamiliar about creating from a place of calm. For years, I only knew how to write when the world was spinning. When I was untethered.

So now, when things are okay—when I’m okay—I find myself staring at the same blank page and pondering: what now?

How do you write without needing to scream?

This question has forced me to revisit my earliest memories of making music and writing words. And in truth, those memories aren't soft and fuzzy—they're heavy and dark. I started writing music as a way to survive. I was depressed. I was isolated. Growing up gay in a small rural community, I often felt like I had to erase or contort parts of myself just to make it through the day. I had a difficult time figuring out who to be. How to be.

I lost my best friend and my entire friend group after he found out I was gay and reacted with fear, disgust, and rejection. His panic became my exile. Suddenly, the people I laughed with, shared memories with, disappeared. I was left alone inside a silence that grew louder by the hour.

I turned inward—farther than I ever had before—and eventually, into self-harm. Not because I wanted to end things, but because I needed to feel something. Music became the thing I latched onto. A thread I could follow in the dark. It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t even confident. But it was mine. It was a place where I could be honest, even if I was afraid to speak.

And then there was my music teacher. A woman who saw me—not just the student, but the struggling, splintered kid behind the broken smile. She gave me the courage to create sound, and more than that, she gave me the tools. Her classroom became a refuge. Her belief in me was a quiet revolution. In that space, I learned that sound could hold pain—but also shape it. I could turn sorrow into something tangible. Something beautiful.

I remain eternally in her debt and forever her student. I’m continuously grateful for her emotional kindness and unconditional support. When I reflect on the impact she had on my life, I can’t help but wonder how many others she’s touched just as deeply—how many lives quietly changed by her presence.

I believe some people arrive like small waves—meant to touch us briefly before crashing into other shores. And then there are people like Sandy, who reverberate against the tidal shore of your life forever. A gentle, undulating reminder of where you came from—and a constant, comforting presence guiding you toward where you’re going.

That passion and support led me to study music. To immerse myself inside a nested network of people all passionate about their art. To learn. To listen. To explore. I do not regret my time studying music--it has helped me explore and learn deeper meaning behind great philosophical questions. The mirror of art helps to refine the understanding of the image reflected back at you.

But that passion and love was not enough to quell the darkness that settled over me when I became consumed with becoming "me"—the artist, the brand, the identity. I went searching for a singular aesthetic voice, thinking that once I found it, everything would click into place.

But instead, I found myself trapped in a cycle.

I wrote the same thing over and over again. Not because I had something to refine, but because I couldn’t let it go. I would start and stop endlessly, convinced that if I just rephrased it, realigned it, reshaped it—this time it would be right. But it never was.

Nothing felt worth finishing. Each draft led to another dead end.

It was a vicious loop of self-doubt, self-criticism, and self-reflection. I wasn’t making art anymore—I was dissecting myself on the page. I mistook self-awareness for progress, when in truth, I was standing still. I was writing to prove something, rather than to express something. I was writing to find an identity I was afraid I didn’t have.

And you know, I took a good long break from making art. I stepped away from music for many years after college. Wondering if I could ever pick up the shattered shards of mirror left behind in my wake.

Now I’m trying to return to something older, something deeper—less about defining who I am and more about simply being who I am. I’m returning to that place. Relearning how to create from roots instead of from rupture.

And what’s different now—what’s allowed me to find my way back—is the foundation I’ve built through healing. Through wellness. Through learning to care for myself in ways I never knew how to before. The tools I’ve gathered—movement, breathwork, nutrition, stillness, sleep, presence—have quieted the inner noise just enough to hear myself again. Not the frantic voice clawing to be understood, but the grounded one, content to simply be.

This clarity didn’t come from escaping my past, but from integrating it. From understanding that health isn’t just the absence of illness—it’s the presence of balance. Of strength. Of gentleness. Of space to reflect. And in that space, creativity flows differently. Not from desperation, but from depth. Not from pain, but from peace.

Wellness gave me the scaffolding to hold myself up long enough to look back without falling apart. And from this place—this steadiness—I’m learning to make again. Not because I’m unraveling, but because I’m becoming whole.

That’s part of what Moondreaming is about—this new body of work I’m stepping into. It’s rooted in memory and place, but it’s also about returning to a version of myself I nearly forgot. It’s about creating not to escape the world, but to reenter it more fully. The moon, with all its phases and quiet pull, reminds me that creation has seasons—and that I, too, can move through them with grace.

Moondreaming is filled with quiet longing, but also quiet clarity. It’s about listening—truly listening—to what exists beneath the noise. To the spaces between the words. To the breath between the notes. It’s the kind of work that asks me not to perform, but to presence. And it’s the kind of work I couldn’t have made until now—until I finally stopped equating chaos with meaning.

Balancing art in the real world isn’t a clean equation. There’s the pull to express and the push to be polished. There’s the raw idea and the refined execution. There’s the sacred voice that whispers in solitude, and the professional one that speaks in strategy.

I’ve spent years learning to show up in both worlds. There are moments I feel split in two. Like I’m constantly toggling between the one who vanishes into the work, and the one who emerges just long enough to keep everything moving.

But I’ve started to see that it doesn’t have to be a fracture. It can be a braid.

My art and my work can coexist—not perfectly, but truthfully.

And in that messy integration, I’m rediscovering myself. Not just the artist. Not just the professional. But the human being underneath it all. The one who still dreams, even with deadlines. The one who still listens, even in the noise. The one who still writes, even when unsure what to say.

Being an artist in the real world means learning to live inside contradiction. Between presence and promotion. Between process and product. Between who you are and who the world thinks you are.

And in that space, that uncomfortable middle, I’ve found something sacred.

Not certainty. But direction.

Not perfection. But presence.

Not a version of me—me.

So I keep showing up. Not always polished. Not always sure. But honest.

I keep making.

I keep dreaming.

Even when it’s messy. Even when it’s quiet. Even when it’s hard.

Especially then.