For as long as I can remember, I’ve felt things deeply. Music was my first language of healing, before I had words for pain or wonder - I had melodies. As a young girl, I’d write poems in the quiet and play songs on the piano - soothing my soul with melody, even when I didn’t believe I could ever do more with it. I’d sing only when I was alone at my piano, or my voice would find safety in the company of trees, wind, and sky.
I loved the stage and performed often, but my tendency to compare myself and a fear of being fully seen kept me small. My knees would shake at piano recitals. I was the shy one - the good girl. I’d smile and play with precision, always the excellent student. But beneath it all, a tender, powerful voice stayed quiet. My standards were sky-high, and they convinced me I was never quite good enough.
It took decades to undo that silence.
I didn’t release my first album until after the age of 40. I didn’t perform with a full band until my 50s. And I didn’t begin recording music videos until I was 60 - fulfilling a dream I’d quietly carried since MTV first aired in the 1980s. Now, at 61, I am creating the most aligned, purpose-filled work of my life.
But the journey here wasn’t linear. It wasn’t loud. It was a spiral of self-remembrance - through motherhood, marriage, healing, hiding, and finally, rising.
Music has always been my medicine. But it wasn’t until I began integrating the spiritual and energetic tools I’d been studying - Human Design, Gene Keys, sound alchemy, shamanic practices, and connecting with the sacred rhythms of nature - that my art became something more than expression. It became a transmission.
I hold a master’s degree in Educational Theater from NYU. That training gave me a strong foundation in storytelling, multimedia, and the art of creating transformative experiences. I understand the power of story, ritual, and embodied experience to teach and to heal.
But this desire to create meaning runs even deeper - it’s rooted in my upbringing, with parents who instilled a longing to make the world more peaceful, and in my 30 years of Buddhist practice.
Growing up in Washington, DC, I was surrounded by music as a force for social change - attending rallies and concerts in the 70s and 80s that shaped my belief in the power of art to heal and awaken.
In the 1990s, a poem by Buddhist philosopher Daisaku Ikeda stirred something in me - urging me to realize my dreams not just for myself, but for the healing of the world. Around that same time, I met my first music mentor, Billy Davis, whose encouragement helped me see that my voice had a place beyond my living room. My writing - whether a song or a soul activation - isn’t meant to just entertain. It’s meant to remember. To reawaken what was once buried.
When I sit down to write, I often begin with an emotion. Something I’m working through. A feeling in the body. A riff. A phrase that won’t let me go. I write in circles, spirals, whispers - letting the song unfold in its own time. I find shapes on the piano and experiment with chords and sound. I play by ear. By connecting to my soul. By tapping into the energy of the collective.
I write for the woman who’s been hiding. For the girl who was told to be smaller. For the part of myself that still wonders, “Is it too late?”
It’s never too late.
My latest body of work is called Soul Alive- an album and collection of healing experiences designed to help people come back to life, back to themselves, back to the truth. Each song is a seed of transformation. From “Remembrance” to “Butterfly,” from “Goodbye” to “Mary Magdalene,” and into the sacred grounding of “Beautiful Earth” - each carries a frequency of empowerment, surrender, devotion, and rebirth.
I choose words very consciously. Words are magic. They create our reality, and I’m very aware of that as I write. I tap into my truth and craft first and foremost in a frequency that resonates and is healing to me. Then I review how it feels with the listener in mind. Sometimes lyrics can be very sparse or mantra like. Other times the songs are more like sacred storytelling. They are intended to activate - to move energy. To awaken clarity. To open the heart.
One of the most profound extensions of my current work is my project I Am a Queen - a song born from my own healing and now being turned into a music video in partnership with charities that support girls rescued from extreme abuse. When I wrote the song, I was reclaiming something in myself. But now it’s becoming a global mirror - a message of worth, dignity, and the safety of being seen.
This is the kind of art I want to make. Not just beautiful, but useful. Not just personal, but universal. Art that invites you into your own voice, your own rhythm, your own knowing.
In a world that feels noisy and overwhelming, I bring sound with intention.
When everything moves too fast, I offer space for something slower, more meaningful.
And in times of burnout, I return to beauty - not as a luxury, but as a way to soothe and remember.
I write to wake something up.
I sing to feel connected.
And I don’t believe healing has to be hard, but I do believe it has to be honest.
My process is deeply intuitive and emotionally driven. I write in devotion to truth. I sing in devotion to love. And I show up again and again to the creative altar, trusting that what moves through me will find who it’s meant for.
So here I am - an artist in her 60s, still blooming. A mother of three grown children. I’m committed to living with courage, using my voice, and having no regrets - to making the most of my life for the sake of my children and future generations. A woman who once feared being seen, now helping others find the courage to shine.
My story isn’t one of overnight success. It’s one of sacred timing, radical trust, and creative resurrection.
And my hope is that in hearing it, something in you stirs too. A dream long dormant. A gift waiting to rise. A truth ready to be sung.
Because you are a queen. And it’s safe to be seen.
