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When I wrote “I Remember”, it wasn't just music—it was a return to the parts of my past I still carry. The lines and rhythm brought me closer to old friends, long gone, and to the weight of those years.

“I Remember” is a kind of time travel. Not just the easy moments, but everything: the pain, the silence, the resilience. It captures the the love of my mother.

The melody is a thread that ties me to my past self. And in singing it, I bring them back into the now.

That's how I became an artist. Not through some career ambition, but because my hands needed to speak. Healing required expression. And that's what sculpture became: a still, silent prayer.

Sculpture taught me patience. Unlike a fleeting moment, stone and wood don't lie. I learned to sculpt story, to take what was hidden and place it where others could feel it. Each sculpture is a way of saying: I survived this, and I remember.

This life as an artist isn't about perfection. It's about connection. I switch between forms like the tides move—inevitable, rhythmic, necessary. When I can't carve, I sing. When I can't sing, I write. And when all I can do is breathe and be still—I listen. That, too, is art.

There's a phrase that anchors me through it all: “Because of you, I am; and because of me, you are.” That's what “I Remember” means to me. It's not only mine—it's a whisper to those who walked before.

When I sing it, I think of the way my people carried me. I think of the hands that helped me up.

I remember. And in doing so, I live.

So when you hear the song, you're not just hearing me—you're hearing a carving in sound. It's not performance—it's a return. A healing. A remembering.

And that's what my art is always trying to do. Singer Songwriter