CHAPTER 1

In my mid-teens, I suffered an ABI: (Acquired Brain Injury), after being hit by a speeding car. Large portions of my memory left me, and things that were once simple, were suddenly overwhelming. Confusion raged within me, as my brain axed out new neurological pathways. I spent years as an outpatient, doing rehab. Years of following instructions I couldn't comprehend.

I found solace in music and went on to study formally, with classical piano as my major. I was moved by Bach, Chopin, Debussy and Liszt. Infuriated by Mozart. 

A composition class laid out for me the rudiments of songwriting. 

I used my afterhours pass and spent many hours composing at the bottom of a stairwell, on an out of tune, forgotten piano. 

At a gig someone gave me a business card for a recording studio. I decided to go check it out. 

The producer 'became a fan' and said my songs were great, but he also handed me the hard reality: I was at least 5 years too old for the music industry. 

I was given compensation money for my head injury, so I decided to record the songs anyway, as a self-funded artist. I started doing gigs around Melbourne, promoting my upcoming debut album with wild enthusiasm. 

Then a stranger called me up. He said are you sitting down?  My best friend had hung herself in the garden shed. Finishing my album after that, felt as daunting as swallowing the Atlantic. I went on a road trip to nowhere... got hopelessly lost and came back, still lost. 

I continued recording, but her death had changed me. 

Promotions, press releases, posters and glossy smiles. All the while I felt blackened out on the inside. I changed the album's name to 'Regaining Colour' and hoped that through the process of writing/recording, my life would once again find some colour. 

An unknown producer reached out. He offered to help me market my soon to be released album, and I was delighted to accept his help. 

There was an instant and striking connection between us, and after 4 days he proposed. My parents did extremely well to smile at him, me and the news. He took over my nearly finished album, and we spent the last scrap of my compensation money, building a music studio to work in together, full time, forever. 

As it turned out we worked together like fire and water, canceling each other out.  Any music I liked, he hated, and vice versa. Things stalled to a halt. 

In less than a year, we were starting to question our hasty engagement. 

We were both gearing up for the 'I think we should be friends' talk, but we ended up having the 'I think I missed a period' talk instead. 

Word got around to my first love, a man who suffered from substance abuse issues. He overdosed. I sat through his funeral and stared at photos of myself on the overhead screen, guilty that a new life kicked within me, while his had flickered out. 

Before I was ready, our daughter emerged, instantly quelling my fears about motherhood. I took a break from music entirely, while she was in her infancy. 

Her dad worked in the studio we had built and produced an album 'of mine' that he liked. Tellingly I didn't release it. But I was grateful for the effort he made.

I pressed a few copies and sold it while out busking. 

I became entangled with a local percussionist. 

He is a songwriter, and he and I worked together like fire and wood. At first brilliantly bright, only to discover we were consuming each other. Ashes and scars.

In 3 years, I felt like I aged 30 years. 

I lived with his temper in the same way that one would live with a nest of hornets. On edge. Quiet, careful, dreaded movements. I started to grind my teeth at night and at dawn I'd wake beside him wondering: Is today a good day? 

There is still a gap where my right molar should be, from having worn it down. 

Every part of me felt worn down, and eventually there were no good days. Our Collector's Edition EP volume 1 is all there'll ever be. Well, that, and the few dozen songs I wrote throughout that time.  

A studio offered me free sessions. 

As much time as I wanted on a full size grand.

I spent many nights, after tucking my little girl in, heading over and singing my heart out. 

I was young enough and stupid enough not to see the catch. 

That time ended abruptly, and unpleasantly.  

It took some time, but I finally found a studio that I feel comfortable working in.

A place where I feel free to be the artist that I am. 

I have a song now (or several songs) for every letter of the alphabet and I'm saving up to record as many as I can in 2026, with the intent to share those songs, one per week in 2027. 

They are a biography of sorts.  

Stories of love, loss, regret, abuse, recovery, and dare I say it, triumph. 

I can't bring back the dearly departed. 

In many ways, I buried myself alongside them, under the weight of regret. 

Today, I hope that my songs and the stories behind them can reach people, and help them to feel connected, seen and valued.  

I've leant that a burnt forest doesn't renew overnight. 

New leaf shoots emerge unannounced, in the coming seasons. 

It may come slowly but there is always, hope. 

Dark time pass, and beauty can come from ashes. 

Thank you for being here, I hope you find reasons to stay.