I grew up with Music as a living presence.
Not background noise, not a hobby — a heartbeat. A language. A place to set things down when life felt too heavy to hold alone.

 

My father, Doug Midgley, was the first person who revealed to me that a song could tell the truth in a way a spoken sentence never could. He wrote with honesty, humor, grit, and tenderness, and even though he’s no longer here, he still helps me navigate life through his songs.

 

Some of my earliest memories are of him filling the house with Music: guitar in hand, voice so warm the whole world seemed brighter because he was in it. After he was gone, I kept listening to the cassette tapes he recorded, rewinding the same moments over and over just to feel him close.

 

Sharing the work he left behind and collaborating with him posthumously is one of the honors of my life.

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My mother gave me the other half of my rhythm — the part that believes in beauty, in expression, and in showing up for life even when it feels impossible. Between the two of them, I learned that creativity isn’t something you do.
It’s something you become.

 

Music followed me into adulthood — into heartbreak, illness, reinvention, and every version of myself I didn’t know how to explain yet. When I faced leukemia in 2020, I didn’t call it a battle. I called it my cancer curriculum — because I knew resistance would only take me so far. Music was where I processed the fear, the hope, the letting go, the choosing to stay. She stayed with me. And she still does.

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My sound carries all the places I’ve been:
a little jazz from my grandfather,
a soulful ache from my father,
a Southern softness from where I was born,
a California glow from where I grew up,
and a quiet refusal to choose just one identity.

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I write from the overlap — the place where tenderness meets resilience, where questions become melodies, where healing becomes harmony. My songs aren’t just stories; they’re survival notes, spiritual snapshots, tiny windows into the climb.

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I don’t believe Music is meant to impress people.
I believe she’s meant to accompany them.

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If my songs find you on the way up, or the way down, or paused somewhere in between…

I hope they feel like someone sitting beside you saying,
“You’re not alone. Keep going.”

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This is who I am.
This is where the music comes from.