I’ve always listened a little differently.

Growing up as a hearing-impaired Black Muslim woman in Stone Mountain, Clarkston, and Atlanta, I learned to read the world through rhythm, texture, and people. My hearing ear is tuned in not just to sound, but to story—every hum of the train tracks, every voice in a new language at the mosque, every melody bleeding from a car window on Park Gate Place.

My love for music was born at the kitchen table, where my daddy would sit me down to play songs from across time and space—vinyls, CDs, YouTube clips, and old cassette tapes. We traveled without moving, tracing soundwaves through generations and genres. I also spent hours of my childhood traveling the globe with nothing but Google Earth and a deep curiosity. It taught me early that music, like maps, connects. That cultures don’t collide—they converse. And I’ve been building bridges with sound ever since.

Before the pandemic, I was on track to become an attorney—one of those kids who could argue a case with their eyes closed. I competed nationally in mock trial, worked on Capitol Hill, and was preparing for my first year of law school when the world shut down.

But 2020 cracked something open.

I realized I didn’t have to be in a courtroom to advocate. I didn’t need a title to serve. I could move people—not with motions or memoranda, but with music. That’s when I understood that songwriting is public service.

Now, I write music that crosses genre lines and cultural borders—country, hip-hop, rock-soul, cinematic pop—not because I’m indecisive, but because I was never meant to pick one box. I make music for the in-betweeners, the dreamers, the ones who’ve felt othered but still want to be seen. We are The Rebels.

I believe every life is a film, and every moment deserves a score. That’s why I call what I do “writing the soundtrack to your life.” Whether it’s a victory lap, a soft unraveling, or a front porch reflection, I’m building worlds—one song at a time.