For a long time, I've introduced myself as a banjo player from the Eastern Shore of Maryland. I'm a hiker and an environmentalist. I'm an optimist. I'm loud.
I'm still all those things, but I went quiet for a few years. I cut my long hair short. I got a cat named Cat Stevens. I fell in love. I moved to New York, to France, and back.
Inevitably, I found my space in the place between knowing who I was and finding out who I am.
I'm a songwriter, producer, and performer from Brooklyn. I'm an optimist. I'm a feminist. I'm loud when I laugh. I'm freckled. I love my old jeans. I love pink eye shadow. I cry when I dance sometimes. I feel a lot, maybe too much, but in a song, it always seems to be just enough.
The thing about songs is that no matter how far away I go, or how long I stay away, they always seem to keep coming. And as wild and unpredictable as they are, I've learned to trust them. I write to feel and sing 'til I feel a new way.
I love the music most when it makes me feel human. Feet on the ground, soft hair, standing with my friends and, in three parts, singing. Feet off the ground, hair wild, moving to that perfect pulse that mimics your beat and mine.
Sometimes I think it's magic – this thing we can't see, but makes us all feel the same way. When it's real, it raises hair and makes the air taste sweeter.
I want to make music forever. I want to tell the truth. I want to know how it feels to make the best art I possibly can.
I can't promise I won't change or that I won't fall in love with new people or ideas that'll change the way I see the world, but I can promise to be me.
To be messy. To be flawed.
To be honest. To be open.
To be human.