last night I sat cross-legged on the floor of the small Brooklyn apartment where I live with mom and abuela, guitar in my lap, a song in my head I haven’t finished yet. outside, the city hummed its usual lullaby — sirens, wind, someone yelling too far away to understand. inside, just me, chasing chords like they might answer something.
people ask what it means to me, being a musician. I never know how to explain it cleanly. it doesn’t mean fame. it doesn’t mean gigs or streams or someone calling you a genius in the comments. (but it wouldn’t upset me if you did.) it’s not even about being good.
it’s about needing to make something out of the noise in my head, the ache in my chest, the moment right before I cry or laugh or scream.
it’s not a performance. it’s a pulse.
being a musician doesn’t mean I always believe in myself. I get scared. I hear other voices, smoother, stronger, more certain — and wonder if I belong in the same room or even on the same planet. I worry I’m too untrained, too odd, too much or not enough.
sometimes I’m not even sure if any of this counts. if what I’m doing means anything at all. but then I sit down and play. and even on the days when it feels pointless or too heavy to hold, there’s still this quiet voice in me that says: it matters. keep going.
making music has taught me how to listen — really listen. how to be with a moment without rushing to fix it. how to let sadness become melody. let fear keep time. let all the messy, aching parts of me find their way into something that sounds like truth.
it means I can stay. I can survive myself.
I don’t have it all figured out. but this life — these verses shaped by the city, the struggles I’m still learning how to hold — it’s mine. and lately, it’s started to feel like maybe I don’t have to become someone else to belong in it. like maybe growing into it just means staying with it. staying with myself.
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