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 — through 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.”​
SOUTHERN BALLEY GIRL
If you’ve ever wondered about my sound…
it lives in the overlap —
sweet, peachy porch-light warmth
and neon California glow.​
This is where my songs come from.
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A little Southern Belle,
a little Valley Girl.
This is me.
THE MAGIC I MAKE
WITH OTHERS
Music is alive.
She’s the one doing the arranging.
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At certain thresholds, Music guides the right people to appear and walk alongside my work while it takes form.
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Digital Droo, whose feel and sonic touch help me hear myself more clearly.
Liz Aday, whose musicianship and shared moments help shape parts of my musical journey.
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I trust Music to know what belongs — and when.
THE WORK THAT GROUNDS ME
When I’m not writing music, I’m building another kind of harmony through the real estate business I run with my husband, Robert Gosalvez.
We work with CØMPASS, and the rhythm of that work balances me — creativity on one side, clarity and strategy on the other.
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Robert is our lead agent.
I’m the creative director behind the scenes.
Together, we guide clients through big transitions with the same care I bring to every song:
presence, intuition, and an obsession with getting the details right.
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If you’re curious about that world, you can step into it here:
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Different expressions, same purpose:
helping people find their way home.
