Emerging Artist

A lot of artists spend years trying to separate the version of themselves they think people want from the version that actually creates honest art. When you look back at the point where music shifted from hobby to something deeply serious for you, what do you think finally gave you permission to stop chasing “perfect” and start creating authentically?

Honestly, for a long time I was trying to be this “perfect lyricist” version of myself. I’d overthink every line, make things more poetic than they needed to be, and avoid saying anything too specific in case it felt “too much.” Music was still important, but it kind of stayed in that safe hobby zone where I just wanted people to think it sounded good.

Things shifted when life in general started feeling really heavy and my mental health wasn’t in a great place. I realized I was using songs to dodge the real stuff instead of facing it. At some point I had this feeling like, “if I’m not going to be honest here, what’s the point of this at all?”

The turning point was the first song where I didn’t edit out the uncomfortable lines. I remember listening back and feeling a bit exposed, but also weirdly relieved, because it actually sounded like me. That was when it stopped being about chasing this polished idea of “perfect” and more about telling the truth, even if it’s messy.

Now my little rule is: if a lyric makes me slightly nervous to put out, it’s probably the one that needs to stay. That’s when music went from something I did for fun to something really serious and grounding for me.

You’ve spoken about struggling to finish songs in the past, which is something so many creatives battle with yet refuse to let it be known to the world. Was there a particular moment in the studio where you realised you were no longer creatively stuck and it was no longer intimidating to sit with your music?

For me, getting stuck was basically about chasing this fake idea of “perfect.” I’d overthink every line and every section, and if the song didn’t come out in one magical sitting I’d decide it wasn’t good enough. Obviously that just killed any momentum.

What changed was giving myself permission to pause instead of panic. Now, if I can’t get the next few lines or the song just isn’t moving, I leave it for a few days. I go live my week, go through whatever I’m going through, and then come back with fresh eyes. Little things people say, random thoughts during the day– all of that ends up feeding into the song. It’s less “I must finish this masterpiece today” and more “I’m building this piece by piece as life happens.”

In the studio, the real “oh, I’ve actually got this” moment was working on “sociopath” with my current producer. It was only the second single I brought to him, but it felt like a switch flipped. The song is super personal, and instead of freaking out every time I hit a wall, I weirdly just trusted myself. I was patient, I didn’t rush the emotional stuff, and I kind of knew deep down I’d pull it together. By the time we finished it, I was like, “Okay, cool, I can do this. I’m not stuck, I just needed a different way of working.” Since then, sitting with my music has felt way less intimidating and way more like hanging out with something that’s still in progress – which is way more fun anyway.

Your music feels emotionally exposed without ever becoming overly dramatic, which is a really difficult balance to strike. When you’re writing from personal experience, how do you decide which emotions are meant to stay private and which ones deserve to become part of a song?

I think for me it’s less about “this emotion is private” and more about how I show it. I’ll basically feel everything really intensely in real life, but when I’m writing I try not to pour it onto the page in this big dramatic block. Instead, I look for specific images or lines that feel true without feeling like I’m trauma-dumping on whoever’s listening. A big thing I ask myself is: would this help someone else feel seen, or am I just venting? If it’s just me getting something off my chest, that probably belongs in my notes app, not in a song. But if there’s a line where I think, “Okay, someone else has definitely felt this,” that’s usually a sign it deserves to stay. I also pay attention to what still feels too raw. If a detail feels invasive to my own life, or to someone else’s, I’ll either blur it a bit or keep it for myself. I don’t want to turn my real life into a spectacle. The goal is to be emotionally exposed but grounded – to let people in on the feeling without handing them every page of my diary.

Working with the right producer can completely transform an artist’s confidence and identity. Beyond the technical side of making music, how did your collaboration with your producer change the way you viewed yourself creatively?

He’s actually only the second producer I’ve ever worked with, and before meeting him I honestly had no idea who I was as an artist. I didn’t really know my genre, my sound, or what lane I wanted to sit in. I was kind of floating between ideas and just hoping something would click.

I also think it’s super important to work with someone closer to your age. There’s this instant shorthand – they get your references, you’re into similar artists, you both know what’s happening in music right now. It stops feeling like a formal “session” and more like two people geeking out over the same ideas.

The big shift was when we worked on “helmet.” Hearing what he brought to that track was such a lightbulb moment. It was like, “Oh, this is what my music can sound like.” After that I just wanted to keep bringing him more songs, because I finally felt like there was a direction that made sense for me.

Since working with him, my lyricism and composition have levelled up a lot. My creativity’s kind of spiked – I’ve been playing around with different tunings that I used to find really intimidating. Half the time I don’t even know what chords I’m playing, I just go with whatever sounds cool and build from there.

That collaboration made me trust my ear more than the “rules,” and it shifted how I see myself creatively – not as someone guessing their way through, but as an artist who actually has a voice and isn’t scared to experiment to find it.

“Helmet” clearly connected with listeners in a meaningful way, especially for an independently developing artist. Did the response to that track teach you anything surprising about the kind of music people are craving right now?

Yeah, “helmet” honestly blew my mind a bit. Production-wise it’s super stripped back – just me strumming an acoustic progression all the way through, a little synth that drops in for those intimate moments, some electronic strings, and a bit of percussion. And fun fact: the whole production is completely off the grid – no metronome, no click, everything was timed manually, which I think adds to how human and organic it feels.

The crazy part is that it was also the first time I’d ever written a guitar solo. That was a real challenge because I’ve never seen myself as an electric guitar person. I’ve always been more of an acoustic girl – just bashing out chords and singing over the top. So stepping into that “solo” territory felt a bit intimidating.

I’m actually really proud of that solo, because even though I’ve played guitar for years, I’ve never been the music theory kid. I don’t really know what I’m playing half the time, especially with more intricate chords and lines. I don’t know what key I’m in or which notes are “supposed” to go where – I just rely on my ear and follow what feels right.

Hearing people message me specifically about how much they love that solo, and then getting even more excited when they find out it’s my original composition, was huge. It kind of proved to me that you don’t need to be a theory genius to make something that connects. You just need a good musical ear and the willingness to trust it.

So the response to “helmet” really showed me that people are craving songs that are simple, honest, and human – and that listeners actually love hearing those little risks and personal touches, even if they came from you winging it a bit.

When you’re fully inspired, what does your creative process look and feel like? 

When I’m fully inspired, it kind of starts before I even touch my guitar. I’ll usually go down a little rabbit hole of music from the artists who influence me the most – a lot of Holly Humberstone, Searows, Lizzy McAlpine, sometimes Phoebe Bridgers if I’m feeling extra moody. And then I like to dig for new artists I haven’t heard before, just to shake things up a bit. You usually end up making music similar to what you listen to, so finding new tunes can push you in a slightly different direction.

Since being more involved in the production side of my own songs, I’ve noticed I listen really differently now. I pick up on all the tiny, fluttery production details in other people’s tracks – little ear-candy moments or textures most people probably wouldn’t notice if they’re not a muso. That stuff really feeds into my process.

From there, it’s pretty fluid. I’ll mess around on guitar – often in weird tunings now – and just chase whatever feels good. I’m not thinking about theory or “the right chord,” I’m just following what hits emotionally. When it’s flowing, it doesn’t feel like I’m forcing a song; it’s more like I’m catching something that’s already there and building a little world around it.

You’re currently building toward an EP, and projects like that often capture a very specific chapter of someone’s life. Looking at the songs you’ve already completed, what themes or emotional threads seem to be revealing themselves across the project without you intentionally forcing them there?

I didn’t really clock it while I was writing but looking back now the EP is definitely one long deep dive into what it feels like to stay in something that’s draining you while you’re also slowly losing yourself. There’s a lot of imagery around injury and warfare – knives, guns, helmets, crucifixion, courts, murder – but it’s all emotional. It’s about being in this constant state of impact: you’re getting hit, but you’re still standing there trying to hold everything together.

A big thread is self‑erasure and shape‑shifting. Across tracks like “helmet” and “swim,” I’m changing my clothes, my behaviour, my whole sense of self just to keep the peace or make things feel “okay,” even when it hurts. There’s also this repeating idea of sacrifice and martyrdom – apostles, crucifixion, bleeding for someone, going down for “murder in my courtroom.” It’s very much that push–pull of “I’ll do anything for this connection” and “I actually might not survive this version of myself.”

There’s also a big focus on the body as a measure of how loved or safe you feel. In “touch me, mean it,” it’s literally about not wanting intimacy if it isn’t genuine, and in other songs it shows up as lungs, chests, breath, being out of body, starving. The body becomes this scoreboard for emotional safety – if something’s off, it shows up there first.

At the same time, there’s this quiet thread of awakening and resistance. “the void” especially has that sense of, “Yeah, there’s a gap now, but I also feel more alive in that space,” and you get little moments of clarity scattered through the other songs too. So even though the EP lives in a messy, heavy chapter, there’s an undercurrent of starting to pull yourself back, noticing what doesn’t feel right, and slowly reclaiming your sense of self.

There are so many emerging artists stuck in that cycle of overthinking, comparing themselves, or waiting until they feel “ready” to release music. Now that you’ve pushed through some of those creative barriers yourself, what mindset shift would you say mattered most in helping you actually move forward?

I think the biggest shift for me was realising that “ready” is kind of a myth. I used to think there’d be this moment where I’d suddenly feel like a real musician and everything I released would be flawless. Obviously that moment never came, and all that mindset did was keep me sitting on songs and comparing myself to people who were already putting stuff out.

What actually helped was flipping it and thinking, “Okay, what if releasing is part of how I get ready?” Once I saw every song as a snapshot of where I’m at right now, instead of a final statement on who I am forever, it got way less intimidating. I stopped chasing this imaginary perfect version and started focusing on being honest and finishing things.

Another big thing was accepting that everyone’s faking it a little bit. I don’t know all my chords, I don’t fully understand theory, half the time I’m just trusting my ear and hoping it lands – and that’s fine. The more I leaned into that and released anyway, the more confident I became. So my mindset now is basically: don’t wait to feel ready, use the process of releasing and creating as the thing that makes you ready.

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Interview by Amelia Vandergast