When I was younger, I thought the only way I could truly express myself—or help others—was by becoming a rapper.

I’d felt so much, seen so little, and music seemed like the only place raw emotion was allowed to exist without shame.
It made sense at the time.
I saw people like Eminem turn pain into poetry, into impact. I thought that might be my path too.

But as I’ve grown, I’ve realised something.

I don’t have to be Eminem.

I’m not him.
We might share a sense of emotional bankruptcy early in life, but we’re different.
Different energy. Different tone. Different calling.

Where his path led him into battle bars and brutal self-exposure, mine has led me into something quieter, maybe even more reflective.

I’m not here to dominate a stage.
I’m here to hold space.

I’ve found other strengths—building websites, shaping ideas, writing honestly, creating gentle spaces for people to feel less alone.
And that’s where I can still bring music in.

Not as a performer, but as a guide.
Not to be impressive, but to be useful.

If someone listens to a song and it hits them deeply, I want to help them explore why.
I want to ask what their body remembers that their mind doesn’t.
I want to help them feel what I felt when a line of music sliced through the noise and told me something I hadn’t been able to say aloud.

That’s still a form of healing.
That’s still reducing suffering.
That’s still powerful.

So maybe I do have a little bit of a rapper in me.
And maybe one day I’ll play with that.
But I’m not taking it too seriously.

Because the truth is:

I already have a voice.
I already have a mission.
And I’m finally using it—my way.