When Words Became Music for Me | Why I Write Songs

Why I Write Songs

When I was about nine or ten, I remember sitting on a stool in our kitchen while my mother cooked. I was just chatting her ear off the way kids do. Out of nowhere, I said, “I want to be a songwriter.” I meant it with my whole chest. At the time I was obsessed with Irene Cara’s “Fame.” Those lyrics, that melody, that feeling of possibility — it had me in a chokehold.

Around the same time, rap was emerging, and I loved testing myself with little freestyles on random objects around the house. I would rap about the phone, the couch, the cereal box, whatever was in front of me. If it could rhyme, I was going to try. Something in me knew even then that words were my playground. I hadn’t even considered singing yet. 

For me, songwriting has never just been something I do. It is how I process life, how I connect with people, and how I make sense of the world around me. I am one of those people who will burst into a lyric mid-sentence if you say a word that triggers a song. Music lives in me like a second language.

Some songs arrive fully formed, like they were dropped off by spirit. Others take their time. Some sit in a voice memo for years until life finally gives me the right language to finish them. But no matter how they show up, I never force a song. I let the song lead.

Where Inspiration Comes From

I pull inspiration from everywhere. Conversations. Memories. Breakthroughs. Mistakes. Spiritual moments. Long drives. Crying in the bathroom. Laughing at the cookout. A sentence I overheard. A look someone gave me. A dream I had. Songwriting is really about paying attention. When something moves me, I try to capture it. Sometimes it is a phrase. Sometimes it is a melody. Sometimes it is just a feeling that eventually becomes a verse.

My Songwriting Process

My process changes depending on the song, but usually one of three things shows up first:

A melody

A lyrical hook

A vibe or emotional atmosphere

And let me say this clearly because it surprises people all the time: I am a lyricist first. I do not play any instruments. My instrument is my voice and my pen. But even without playing, I have always heard arrangements, felt grooves, and understood how I want a song to move.

During the pandemic, I pushed myself to grow in that area. I finally sat down and learned how to use GarageBand. Between that, a little music theory, and a whole lot of intuition, I produced a couple of songs on my own. It opened up a new world for me. Suddenly I could shape demos in a way that helped musicians understand the exact vibe and feel I was going for without having to find the language for every single detail.

That experience expanded my skill set and made me a more confident collaborator. Even now, when I am writing, I hear the production ideas right along with the lyrics. If a melody comes, I hum it into a voice note right away. If a lyric hits me, I write it down even if I do not know the rest yet. If it is a vibe, I sit with it until the shape of the song appears.

The Joy of Bridges, Long Intros, and Solos

I love songs with bridges. A bridge is that moment when the song opens up and says something brand new, something that could not fit anywhere else. It is like the emotional plot twist that brings everything home.

And honestly, I miss the long intros and reprises from back in the day, too. The songs that took their time. The ones that set a whole mood before the first lyric even hits. The ones that wrapped up with a little extra sauce at the end, like a musical encore inside the track. That kind of storytelling shaped me.

And do not get me started on instrumental solos. A good solo is like a conversation between the musicians and the moment. It adds texture, breath, personality, and flavor. It gives the song space to stretch out and show off. Think about Branford Marsalis on “I Will Always Love You”; that sax solo is a whole story on its own. When a musician takes a solo, they are adding their voice to the narrative, and I love creating space for that.

The Magic of Collaboration

I love collaborating with other songwriters. There is something powerful about making something with another person, especially when you are both tuned into the same emotional frequency. Collaboration brings out ideas I would not have found on my own. It opens doors, unlocks approaches, and reminds me that music is communal at its core.

Some of my favorite songs were born out of shared laughter, shared vulnerability, or a moment where we both felt a line land in the same place at the same time. Creating with others always feels like alchemy.

How My Writing Finds Its Voice

I want my songs to always land in a particular lane that is grounded, grown, and rooted in lived experience. When I write, I lead with story first, groove second, and honesty always. I do not chase trends, I chase truth.

If a lyric does not feel honest, I cut it.If a melody does not move me, I reshape it.If a story is not aligned with where I am or where I have been, I save it for another season. My writing comes from real life, real emotions, and real moments. That is the compass, the craft, and the kind of music I want to leave behind.

Letting the Song Choose Its Form

Being open to what the song actually wants instead of what I think it should be has become a core part of my process. Some songs want a full band and stacked harmonies. Some want nothing but bare vocals and a piano. Some want a two-step groove. Some want silence, space, and breath.

I have learned to honor the song, not control it or rush it, but shape it with care. It is easy to get caught up chasing a new sound, imitating something you love, or experimenting just because you can. But the song is always at its best when I let it lead. When I trust the feeling more than the formula, that is when the magic shows up.

What I Hope My Music Gives People

When people hear my songs, I want them to feel good, not just emotionally, but physically. I want them to feel pleasure in the sound and enjoy the beauty of tone, harmony, and groove the way you enjoy a good meal, a soft candle, or a warm hug. I want listeners to feel seen and understood, like the music is speaking to a part of them they do not always show. I want them to feel grounded, encouraged, and connected to themselves, their memories, and their people. I want them to feel less alone, knowing that whatever they are carrying, someone else has carried it too. And more than anything, I want them to be fully immersed in something beautiful, a sound or a moment that stays with them long after the song fades.

If a lyric hits someone at the right time, if a melody helps them hold a memory close, if a rhythm lets them breathe for the first time all week, raises their vibration, or simply brings them joy for three and a half minutes (or less these days), then the song did what it came here to do.