Tell Me Where the Night Began
I grew up in Maryland, surrounded by suburban streets and tidy lawns with white picket fences, but inside my home, emotions weren’t openly expressed, and care was conditional.
My mother carried her own childhood like a shadow, old wounds that shaped how she demanded control, perfection, and composure. My father, physically present but emotionally distant, reinforced a sense of unworthiness I carried like a secret tattoo on my heart.
Yet even in that house where my light was constantly dimmed, something inside me refused to die. That spark found its lifeline in music.
Music wasn’t just a pastime; it was a place where I could exist fully. Notes became my words, songs my confessions, and harmonies became my joy.
The piano, the voice, the resonance of a room filled with harmonies, these were spaces where judgment couldn’t reach me, and where I wasn't "too much."
The song didn’t care if I had been unwanted or unseen. The melody didn’t weigh me down with expectations. It simply let me be.
And then came the people who taught me how to hold that space.
Mama Dash was the first. She wasn’t just a voice teacher; she was a second mother and mentor, who saw me when no one else did. She believed in my voice before I believed in it myself. Every lesson with her felt like she was untangling the knots of doubt I carried from home, showing me that my voice was not only beautiful but powerful. She didn’t just teach music; she taught survival, resilience, hard work and the quiet confidence that comes from being truly seen.
Miss Mona offered another kind of sanctuary. In her studio, I could release every part of myself: the sorrow, the longing, the secret anger, the joy. Her voice guided me through the mechanics of singing, but more importantly, she showed me that emotion could live safely inside art. I could pour everything into a song and not be punished for it.
Together, these mentors (and others) formed a constellation of guidance, care, and belief that surrounded my life like invisible arms. Each of them, in their own way, was proof that the world could hold beauty, stability, and love.
Through music, their voices, and their encouragement, I learnt that I could exist fully, even in the spaces that felt unsafe.
Every note I sang, every lesson I took, every practice session became a lifeline. Music became my oxygen, my proof that life could exist outside of survival.
I learned to refuse to stay silent, my melody that refused to be contained. And it carried me through the years that followed, through heartbreak, childhood & adulthood abuse, through loneliness, through chronic disease, all the places where this world would try to dim my light. It's been a bloody fight at times, leaving scars and gaping wounds.
My resilience took me far away, to foreign places and languages. At 16, I started travelling the world, building my resilience and skills, dancing, theatre, learning cross-cultural communication, compassion for the hurting and unseen, in 18 countries, living in four of those full-time.
The battles I’ve faced (and have helped others face) have shaped (and are still shaping) me with resilience and empathy. The next step is learning to give myself the love I so freely give to others.
This self-love is still a work in progress.... and I hope I never stop learning how to love others, and love myself...
