Q. Your essay “Why I Sing Even Though I Was Told I Never Should” is deeply personal. What finally gave you the courage to stop hiding behind production and step fully into your own voice?
I think I just ran out of places to hide. I grew up in a loud Orthodox household where there was always structure, always certainty, always a right way to do things. Music was something I loved, but singing felt exposed in a way I wasn’t ready for. Producing let me stay in control. At some point that control started to feel like avoidance. I realized that if I kept polishing everything around my voice, I’d never actually say anything. So it wasn’t courage as much as fatigue. I wanted to tell the truth more than I wanted to sound impressive.
Q. For years, your ears were ahead of your vocal ability, which created frustration and self-doubt. How did learning to live with that gap change the way you approach music and creativity?
It forced me to accept uncertainty as part of the process. I’m very aware of what something should sound like, and for a long time that made everything feel like a failure in real time.
Eventually I learned that the gap wasn’t a flaw, it was information. It taught me patience and humility, which are not things I naturally excel at. Once I stopped trying to close the gap as fast as possible, the music got more human. Less optimized, more alive.
Q. You’ve worked extensively as a producer and developed an unusually acute sensitivity to pitch. How has that technical knowledge both helped and challenged you as a singer?
It’s a double-edged sword. On a good day, it gives me clarity and intention. On a bad day, it turns into surveillance. I hear everything. Sometimes too much. Singing while constantly monitoring yourself is exhausting. I had to learn when to turn the producer's brain off and let the singer makes a mess. The irony is that the performances I like most now are usually the ones that would’ve made the old me uncomfortable.
Q. You describe your vocal journey as moving from control to emotional truth. When did you first realize that perfection wasn’t the goal anymore—honestly was?
When I noticed that the “perfect” takes didn’t move me. They were clean, impressive, and empty. The takes that stayed with me had cracks in them. Breath, strain, hesitation. I grew up in a world that prized certainty and correctness, and I carried that into my music. Letting go of perfection felt almost rebellious. Honesty turned out to be more interesting anyway.
Q. Storm Before the Storm was written during what you describe as the most painful year of your life. How did heartbreak, identity struggles, and physical trauma shape the emotional core of this album?
That year stripped a lot of illusions away. About relationships, about belonging, about who I thought I was allowed to be. I’d spent a long time believing that meaning was something you eventually arrive at if you make the right choices. Instead, everything kind of fell apart at once.
The album lives in that in-between space, when you don’t know what comes next but you know you can’t go back. It’s not a record about resolution. It’s about staying present while things are still unresolved.
Q. Your voice carries a natural grit and an unconventional vibrato that you’ve learned to embrace. What did it take to stop seeing these qualities as flaws and start seeing them as part of your identity?
Time, mostly. And hearing myself enough times to realize that erasing those things would erase me. I used to treat my voice like a problem to be solved. Now I think of it more like an accent. It tells a story. I grew up singing in group settings where blending mattered more than standing out. Learning to keep what makes my voice slightly inconvenient was a big shift.
Q. Many of your songs emerged organically from lived experience rather than deliberate writing sessions. How do you recognize when a moment in life is asking to become a song?
It’s usually when I can’t stop thinking about it but also can’t explain it to anyone. Songs show up when language fails. I don’t sit down and say, “I’m going to write about this now.” It’s more like something keeps tapping me on the shoulder until I give it a place to land. Writing becomes a way of listening.
Q. You touch on themes of rejection—from communities, relationships, and even yourself. How has music helped you process feeling “unwanted,” and what do you hope listeners hear in that vulnerability?
Music gave me a place where I didn’t have to audition. Growing up in a big family and a tight community, belonging always felt conditional. When I felt unwanted, I learned to perform instead. These songs are the opposite of that. I hope listeners hear permission. Not to fix themselves, but to sit with the feeling without rushing past it.
Q. You’ve said that singing your own songs in someone else’s voice would feel like a lie. What does artistic ownership mean to you at this stage of your career?
Ownership isn’t about ego for me. It’s about responsibility. These songs came from very specific moments in my life, shaped by my background, my doubts, my contradictions. Handing them off would flatten them. Especially now, with AI and automation reshaping music so quickly, showing up as a human voice feels important. Even if it’s imperfect.
Q. For readers and musicians who love music but hate their own voices, what would you say now—after years of doubt, discipline, and persistence—to encourage them to keep singing anyway?
Your voice isn’t the obstacle. Your expectations are. I spent years waiting to sound like someone else before allowing myself to sing. That day never came. What did come was a quieter confidence, built from repetition and honesty. If you’re willing to sound bad for a while, you might eventually sound like yourself. And that’s the only voice that actually matters.
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