Creation is oftentimes a product of experience, the most beautiful discomfort.
To express is to acknowledge the human condition, a recap of your own reality. Something so subjective yet so personal to each that encounters it. To release art into the world is to accept that it no longer belongs to you, but can touch ones that you otherwise wouldn’t have been able to reach.
Music has always been apart of me, but being vulnerable enough to make my own was not an easy process.
I started writing songs when I was about seven years old. After a brief amount of piano lessons, I began to play around with basic chords. When creating songs, I would mainly rely on my ear, but working with words was what I truly fell in love with.
My mother would always coax me into performing for my family members on holidays and birthdays, which I didn’t like at all. Though extremely nerve wracking, afterward, it always felt good to receive that recognition, even if they just saw me as a kid entertaining themself in their down time.
I wasn’t old enough to write from experience, but it was a way to practice my vocabulary. Writing songs was entertainment that didn’t require anyone but myself, and I was in control of every part of it.
By the time I reached high school, I wrote less. I had acknowledged that I differed from the kids I wanted to be like, and felt most comfortable not being seen. I felt feelings very strongly and I didn’t know how to deal with it.
I spent a lot of my time looking up to musicians and keeping up with their lives, almost living vicariously through figures that seemed to have it all figured out.
There was something so admirable about being a musician, to have so many people love you for your art, and in turn potentially help them love themselves. That to me is the biggest form of confidence anyone can ever posses. I spent many nights wishing I could foster that energy somehow, but it always felt like a fantasy.
Towards the beginning of college I thought I had figured out an alternate formula to my happiness. I was involved, had gotten into my college of choice, and was rarely ever alone. It wasn’t until I had time to reflect that I truly realized I wasn’t happy, I didn’t know who I was, and I didn’t know why.
It took me being stripped of my involvement to ask myself who I truly wanted to be, and part of me wonders why. It is possible that I distracted and comforted myself with the persona I thought people wanted to see from me.
Dealing with anxiety and panic attacks, being injured and out of the sport that I loved, and not physically being in school gave me a lot of time to sit with my thoughts. While I fought through a lot of bad, I harbored a lot of truth.
I love making music. It calms me down, and I can’t help but feel like I’m taking care of myself when I create.
The process brought me back to being a child, when I didn’t need much external activity to feel fulfilled. Reconnecting with music has been a full circle moment that I didn’t think I would experience this strongly.
A lot of the time it makes me feel more uncomfortable than I’ve ever been, but being honest with yourself is uncomfortable. It’s the most beautiful discomfort I’ve ever felt.
I will continue to create music with the sole purpose of owning up to who I am. I would like to work until I feel like I don’t have to hide myself anymore, and after that, I’ll keep creating so no one else feels like they have to hide either.
if you’re feeling curious, feel free to check out “urfriendgrace” on all streaming platforms, thanks for reading :)