When I was ten years old, my grandfather got a call that his stepdaughter needed him. He told me we were going to her house. We pulled up to a police car in the driveway, lights on and flashing, a stone-faced man in uniform arguing with my aunt. The door opened, and her two kids spilled out. The youngest met me in the backseat and cried into my arms. I can still feel the hot metal of the buckle on my skin as I held him. The oldest, five years older than me, stopped to tell my grandfather what had happened. She then stormed to the other side of the car and yanked open the door, throwing herself next to us. My aunt’s boyfriend had called the cops on her for the umpteenth time. It wasn’t an unusual occurrence, but it usually happened when the kids were out of the house. I had never seen it up close before. Recently, I was home for spring break. The week I was back, my grandparents hadn’t found the time to come visit me. The big thing on their minds was my Aunt getting out of jail. She had been found in possession of cocaine and violated the terms of her probation. To give my grandparents a chance to see me, my parents got a few pizzas and told everyone who wanted to see me to come over before I left the next day. My aunt came about halfway through, stories of her incarceration in tow. She talked about the people she met and their stories. She was my same old eccentric Aunt Lee. She hadn’t really seemed to change all that much. I don’t really talk about my aunt a ton at school. It’s been strange for the past year knowing all of the things that were going on back home. Hearing her talk about the incarceration program got me thinking a lot about how beneficial it can be. To give people a period of time to rethink their actions, and for them to be able to find work and a way to get back on their feet once they serve their time. My dad works for a company that fixes up houses for cheap to get them back on the market, and they have a lot of previously incarcerated workers. Knowing that those people have their own “prison-war stories” is something I think about a lot. My experience with my aunt, though, has forever changed how I look at the world. I find so much meaning in being able to hold people in their hurt. It’s made me a songwriter, and it fills me with perspective. It has made me hopeful. I’ve seen the stories that have come out of incarceration, and so many of them are stories of redemption, forgiveness, and a renewed sense of self. Although the impact the incarceration system has had on me has been small, it’s had an undeniable impact on my life.

I have always struggled with self-confidence. I grew up in a town where everyone was vaguely similar. All the girls were skinny and blonde and naturally gorgeous. They had straight, silky hair. They played sports and had boyfriends, and they went on vacation every year. Even though I wanted to, I never quite learned their language. I was absurdly tall from a young age, and my curly hair took at least fourteen years to learn to manage, let alone to master. I wore the ugliest glasses on the planet, and I had a particular hatred for anything popular, leading to a disdain for Imagine Dragons that I carry with me to this day. I loved to read, and I hated recess. If life were a Venn diagram, I would be completely on the outs. It was hard to connect with anyone, and it instilled in me this feeling of invisibility. I was not interesting enough for the kids around me. In third grade, I made a friend with a fellow reader, partly at the nudging of our teacher, putting two quiet kids in the same book club. She was having a birthday party, and I was thrilled to be going. I was invited to something. My parents dropped me off, and I tried my best to make new friends. It didn’t go as well as I had hoped. Everyone already knew each other, and it left me solidly on the outs. But there in Morgan's living room sat a karaoke machine. I had been in choirs before, and I liked to sing, but I didn’t really do it on my own. I remember cuing something up, singing alone in the empty room. Morgan's parents commented on what a pretty voice I had. I’m not going to tell you that a birthday party karaoke machine fixed all my issues with self-doubt. But it showed me that I was good at something. I started taking piano lessons, I joined choirs, and I started writing music. It got to the point where music was second nature. I hit high school ready to sing my heart out. I started a rock band, and I started playing around my hometown to make money. I craved being on stage, and when the lights were hot on my face, there was no insecurity about the way I looked or the friends I didn’t have. Something in my biology became automatic, and for a moment, I was exactly who I had always wanted to be. I recently went back to my high school to celebrate some underclassmen friends of mine who were performing for their end-of-the-year concert. At intermission, I ran into someone's dad, who asked me how studying music in Nashville is going. I was so pleased to tell him how fulfilling it’s been. We kept chatting about his kids, and he brought up how his younger daughter has a great voice but was struggling with being on stage. “She just doesn’t have that natural confidence like you do.” I told him that confidence is something you work towards, not something you have. He laughed like he didn’t believe me. Over time, music has become less about being interesting and more about learning who I am. In that process, I’ve found so many people who make me feel seen and loved. I’ve gotten the chance to make other people feel that way in return. Music has given more to me than I ever could have asked for, and I feel so blessed to be able to give it to others in the same way.

I remember that I could barely see over the dashboard of my dad’s truck. The leaves were falling in one of those rare, picturesque moments for Michigan, and my dad was driving me to a friend’s house. We had a CD playing. The next track was something I had heard a thousand times over, and I couldn’t keep the smile from my face. “I love this song!” My dad reached over and turned the dial on the volume. “What do you like about it?” He started the song over and over again, letting me drift into concentration. After a few times restarting the track, I sighed and fell back in my seat. “I don’t know.” “Here. Listen to the vocal.” He pointed out the way the singer took a breath, how she started each phrase. The little scoops she bent her voice in for each line. The way she released the note. It was magic. I sat there, taking it all in. There were so many layers, and suddenly I could see all of it. It was like coming up for air. “I want to learn to play guitar, Dad.” “Let’s start with piano first.” After that moment, I fell in love with music. I started learning how to sing, doing everything I could to get better. In high school, I participated in the musicals every year, was a section leader in our top choir for three years straight, and was a member of the All-State Jazz Choir my senior year. But I dove into more than just singing. I started taking piano lessons, branching off to write and arrange my own music. Then I taught myself guitar. Spurred on by the idea that I could play out, I wrote more songs and started getting gigs. I became a solo act, a duo act, and the lead singer in a rock band. A trip through Nashville cemented that I wanted to become a songwriter, and everything that I had been working towards suddenly made sense. I fell in love with Nashville, and three years after visiting for the first time, I committed to Lipscomb University to study Music with an emphasis in songwriting. I completed my first year a couple of weeks ago, and I’m so ecstatic to be going back in the fall. I’ve been a winner of the National Alliance for Musical Theater Songwriting Challenge for high school students two years in a row (2024/2025), a Michigan Education Association Honors composer for two years, a Nashville Songwriters Association International “One to watch,” and, most recently, a winner of the Johnny Mercer Foundation’s Young Songwriters’ Intensive (2026). I’ve played a side stage at the Cavendish Beach Music Festival on Prince Edward Island in Canada, and opened for the Bellamy Brothers in my hometown. I also recently got to play a show with my original music played by a band. It was electric. I fell in love with music because it was my native tongue. Something about it has always recognized who I am, and sharing that with the world is the most rewarding way to spend my life. Creating those moments of peace for other people is what has become my goal for my mark on the music industry, leading with authenticity and attention to the fine details of what makes music so inexplicably powerful. Music has always existed outside of reason and constriction and time, and I want to spend my time after college creating something that outlives me, creating the same magic I have the privilege of being a part of every single day. Original Song: https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1t0q6HAmk__UvTIxVDjVEd2fSb0qh_L6Q?usp=drive_link

I have worked very hard to be a good musician. After a performance, people talking to me would use the word “talent”, which really got on my nerves. Why could they not see the hours I spent agonizing over the details? The nights I lost sleep writing the perfect hook to a song? I always accepted the compliment, of course, and I have always known it comes from a kind-hearted place, but there was just a level of understanding that the audience seemed to lack. I wanted to end a performance and hear someone say, “Wow, I can tell you worked really hard, Gwen. That was impressive.” I never got that. But one day, someone surprised me. It was my high school choir teacher. She wrote me a letter for when my last days in the Dewitt High School Chamber Choir had come grinding to a halt. She wrote so many touching things, but one of my favorite things she said to me was “You were so valuable to this program.” And there it was. My recognition. From somebody whom I admire with my whole heart. This person had watched me try and fail at so many things, and here she was, four years later, telling me good job. If you have ever met her, you would know what a compliment it is. Choir had been the color in an otherwise empty outline of a high school experience. It had always been my favorite class (aside from oddball history electives), and it had given me common ground in an awkward transition to high school. But here’s the thing. I do not think I could list all of the songs we sang. They were wonderful, I really do mean that. But they were nothing in comparison to the people I met. Like many of us in the arts, I am an introvert. I focus on the craft and the craft alone. But looking back on the whole experience, I was never the misunderstood artist in the corner, coaxing a masterpiece to life while the rest of the world looked on. Thinking back, I can remember dozens of times I played a song for my classmates, or met up with people one-on-one to swap feedback for performances, or just existed next to someone who made me feel seen and valuable. We talk about songs we like. I have inside jokes about zambonis, ice cream, and rats, you name it. It made the journey even more enjoyable. While I do think choir shaped me as a musician, the relationships I built there were infinitely more valuable. Not because they outweigh the importance of my work, but because it taught me that there are people who understand the hours and the details. In an industry that can become so individual, it is easy to think that our work goes unappreciated. But that is why we need to have people to help us zoom out, to see the bigger picture and encourage us that it can be great. In the wise words of my first choir friend, “Your camera distorts things, my eyes do not.” Thank you for your time, thank you for your community.

When I was five years old, I told my dad that I loved a song. We were sitting in his pickup truck, driving to my daycare, and listening to one of our burned CDs. My dad glanced over at me, and after a beat, asked me, “Why?” “Huh?” “What do you like about the song, Gwen?” My dad restarted the song a couple of times, and we sat in silence for a few minutes. After a minute, my dad took the song apart in front of me. He pointed out how the vocalist breathed into the phrase, how she added rasp to certain lines. He went on to talk about the guitar part, the piano part, everything that made the song click. At the end of the ride, I told my dad I wanted to play guitar like Tina Dico, the artist who inspired me to be a musician. He said we’d start with piano lessons. I spent the next few years honing my piano skills. I learned classical music and started arranging nursery rhymes and folk songs by ear. Then came choir. I was in the all-state choir, church choir, and basically anything that got me singing. It was once I hit middle school that I remembered my dream to play guitar, and I started teaching myself. Clumsily plucking out chords, watching YouTube videos to learn fingerstyle picking. It really all came down to me loving these songs and wanting to be able to accompany myself. Then my family stopped through Nashville, Tennessee, after a spring break trip. We watched a writer’s round where I got to see Stephen Wilson Jr. play his songs live. I was hooked. We were sitting in this vintage looking dinner, drinking sodas with too much flavoured syrup, and these four songwriters were pouring their hearts out on stage. And the craziest part was that people were listening. I just remember having this thought that people do this for a living, and they get to watch their songs hit the people in front of them. They get emails and comments and conversations from people who struggle with the very things they write about, and they get to meet people wherever they might be and tell them that they’ve been there too. There was no hope for me after that. I was going to be an artist and songwriter if it were the last thing I ever did. Music has always been a medicine to me. I’ve been moved by songwriters like Sara Bareilles, Tina Dico, Norah Jones, and Madeline Edwards. I’ve been inspired by performers like Stevie Nicks, Freddie Mercury, and Stevie Wonder. Jordy Searcy’s “Better” helped me let go of someone who didn’t care about me. Foo Fighters’ “Pretender” filled my bones with determination when I was running on empty. And Electric Light Orchestra’s “All Over the World” was the brightest example of how music unites people under the same banner, no matter where they might be. When I think of the music industry, I am struck by the songs. The idea that I can get someone through the loss of a loved one, a move across the country, a breakup, or just a hard day. I want to be the mind behind a song that changes people, and I want to leave a legacy of authenticity and genuine connection. I am a musician because I believe in the message. I am a songwriter because I believe we need each other more than we realize. And I am an artist because something in my blood has made me this way.

I recently had the privilege to attend a concert by an up-and-coming artist who is rapidly gaining traction in the music industry. As a music student at Lipscomb University in Nashville, Tennessee, I jumped at the chance. With the tickets at an absurdly discounted price, the show ended up selling out. I wasn’t even a terribly big fan of Sombr, but going to his concert was a chance I couldn’t miss. And it was incredible. Spectacular energy, incredible set, and Sombr’s signature charisma. At the end of the show, after an hour of jumping around, singing his heart out, Sombr lay down on the stage and just looked up. And it was clear what was happening. He was having an “I made it” moment. Leaving the auditorium, I was struck by how compelling his story is. He began creating songs on his own, recording everything, and performing them for years. And eventually got to the Jimmy Fallon show, had a couple of hit singles, and was gaining momentum. And I got to watch him do it. The music industry is home to many talented individuals. Insanely good people. And not everyone sticks. But it was so special to see someone have their moment in the middle of the country music capital of the world. I think today’s music industry is very hard to succeed in. It’s always been difficult, but now it’s harder than ever. Watching Sombr, I wondered how many times he had thought of giving up. How close he was to walking away. The music industry has never been for the faint of heart, but it also has an uncanny way of weeding out those who are not suited for it. But as difficult as the music industry is, it is one of the most necessary art forms of our time. How many other mediums deliver social commentary, open your eyes to your situation, and get stuck in your head? Music is something you get to carry with you, no matter where you are in life, and that has always been really inspiring to me. The idea that you get to create something that people hold close to their hearts. That your lyrics end up in tattoos, or in young adult novels, or printed onto t-shirts. I became a songwriter after a particularly draining spring break trip in high school. I was choosing a lot of things in life that didn’t choose me back, and it was exhausting. My parents and I were driving back from Florida, and ended up stopping in Nashville, Tennessee. We stopped to see a writer's round, where I watched Stephen Wilson Jr. sing about his first kiss at the roller rink. I watched the whole room go absolutely silent. I decided that’s what I was going to do with my life. I was going to make people stop and see themselves clearly. That night at the hotel, I wrote the guitar riff for a song, and I wrote the lyrics on the drive back to my home in Michigan. My future was spoken for. I want to make a difference in the world. However, I believe that first and foremost, changing the world starts by changing its people. And if I can just change one person at a time, the world will follow suit. For me, it’s never been about having something easily. It’s always been about reminding someone that they’re not alone. About working hard at what you do and knowing that it has an impact on someone out there listening. The music is what has my heart. And everything else follows.

I have worked very hard to be a good musician. After a performance, people talking to me would use the word “talent”, which really got on my nerves. Why could they not see the hours I spent agonizing over the details? The nights I lost sleep writing the perfect hook to a song? I always accepted the compliment, of course, and I have always known it comes from a kind hearted place, but there was just a level of understanding that the audience seemed to lack. I wanted to end a performance and hear someone say, “Wow, I can tell you worked really hard, Gwen. That was impressive.” I never got that. But one day someone surprised me. It was my high school choir teacher. She wrote me a letter for when my last days in the Dewitt High School Chamber Choir had come grinding to a halt. She wrote so many touching things, but one of my favorite things she said to me was “You were so valuable to this program.” And there it was. My recognition. From somebody who I admire with my whole heart. This person had watched me try and fail at so many things, and here she was, four years later, telling me good job. If you have ever met her, you would know what a compliment it is. Choir had been the color in an otherwise empty outline of a high school experience. It had always been my favorite class, (aside from my odd ball history electives) and it had given me common ground in an awkward transition to high school. But here’s the thing. I do not think I could list, in complete, all of the songs we sang. They were wonderful, I really do mean that. But they were nothing in comparison to the people I met. Like many of us in the arts, I am an introvert. I focus on the craft and the craft alone. But looking back on the whole experience, I was never the misunderstood artist in the corner, coaxing a masterpiece to life while the rest of the world looked on. Thinking back, I can remember dozens of times I played a song for my classmates, or met up with people one on one to swap feedback for performances. People have asked me about songs that they like. I have inside jokes about zambonis, ice cream, and rats, you name it. While I do think choir shaped me as a musician, the relationships I built there were infinitely more valuable. Not because they outweigh the importance of my work, but because it taught me that there are people who understand the hours and the details. In an industry that can become so focused, it is easy to think that our work goes unappreciated. But that is why we need to have people to help us zoom out, to see the bigger picture and encourage us that it can be great. In the wise words of my first choir friend, “Your camera distorts things, my eyes do not.” Thank you for your time, thank you for your community.

The first good song that I wrote came from the first time I saw Nashville, Tennessee. There was this songwriter's round in a dingy little 50s diner, and four songwriters took turns playing songs they had written for the crowd. I don't think I breathed one time during the whole night. We were stopping in Nashville because it was halfway-ish between my home state, Michigan, and Florida, the place we went for spring break. It had been a terrible time. I had met up with one of my teammates from the volleyball team to hang out on a boat, and she had brought a friend with her instead. They did not talk to me the whole trip. So now I'm sitting in this diner, watching these people pour their souls out, and I decide I can't keep wasting my time on things that don't choose me back. I'm too tired of hiding things that I love about myself so that I'm more manageable and palatable to whoever I'm around. "Whatever I let into my life next", I remember thinking, "it has to be Something Good". I came up with a guitar riff in the hotel room that night, and the whole drive back to Michigan, I spent writing and rewriting the lyrics until they completely described what I was feeling. To this day, it's one of my favorite songs I've ever written. I tell you this because I'm a firm believer that music helps reflect our feelings. I think that in moments of frustration or confusion, music brings clarity. I've listened to songs that have helped me get over crushes, songs that have inspired me to take action, and everything in between. Looking ahead, there are so many things I want to accomplish and be. But the greatest desire in all of that is to make people feel seen and recognized and loved, no matter the distance or time. The only way that I can do that is by writing songs. I'm going to be the three minutes and thirty seconds that changes someone's life. And I hope you will support me in doing so. Thank you for your time.

I remember that I couldn’t see over the dashboard yet. It was fall, and the light was filtering through the trees. My dad and I were driving through a stereotypical old-timey neighborhood on a crisp autumn day. I was bouncing to the rhythm of a Tina Dico song, one that had played a million times before in the cab of my dad’s grey Silverado. Growing up, my dad worked really strange hours. There would be times when I wouldn’t see him for days on end. My mom worked regular days as well, so I always had to be dropped off at a daycare in the mornings before I started school. Usually, my mom would drop me off, but today it was my dad. “What do you hear?” my dad asked, reaching across to turn up the radio. “What?” “What makes this interesting to listen to? Why do you like the song, Gwen?” We fell silent for a moment, and my face folded in concentration. I thought about the lyrics, about how it felt to listen to, but I couldn't pinpoint exactly what made the song cool. “I don’t know,” I sighed in frustration. He chuckled to himself “Listen to the beginning of each line. What do you notice?” I zeroed in, trying to pick up all the nuances. We were silent again until my dad revealed the secret. “She adds scratch into each note. She slides up into it, and do you hear how she takes a breath? She makes it part of the phrase.” Of course! Now that he had pointed it out, I couldn't unhear it. It was like suddenly I could see behind the curtain, and an entire world had been inches away. The rest of the way to the daycare, I sat thinking about how music could be so intricate. It was incredible that something about a song I loved, I had missed entirely. But it made the song. Later in the drive, I told my dad that I wanted to play guitar and sing, just like Tina Dico. He told me we could start with piano lessons and see if I even still wanted to play music. Fast forward and now as a junior in high school, I have written over 20 songs. I’m a member of the Nashville Songwriters Association International. I won the 2024 National Alliance for Musical Theater Songwriting Challenge for High School Students. I’m a section leader of the top choir in my school. I have spent the last three years playing various gigs around the Lansing Area, and I regularly go to open mic nights around town. I play at churches, festivals, restaurants, and private parties. It is a privilege and a dream come true every time I have a willing audience. But it all started with noticing something about a song I had heard a million times before. That was the day I realized how differently music hits everyone. Even when I’m frustrated with my bandmates, or overwhelmed with deadlines for song drafts, the thing I keep coming back to is how much I love being someone who makes music. I love writing lyrics that make people feel less alone, lyrics that make people freeze in place, and songs that get stuck in someone's head until they just have to look up the lyrics. It's always changing, always evolving, and I am honored to be a part of the music community.

Growing up, I loved going to see shows. My aunt was in musicals, and she and her family lived far away, so the only time I would get to see her, aside from holidays, was when she was playing Miss Hanigan in Annie, or Mama Ogre in Shrek. This love for musical theater continued as I grew up with her kids, as they each took their turn on stage. But the legend that held the most iconic parts of musical theater was "Wicked." It was my mom's favorite show, and we got tickets to see it at our local theater while it was on tour. And then Covid canceled our plans. There was no talk of the show coming through again and we were devastated. But a year later the tour came through again and we were able to see the legend that is "Wicked." And I was floored. The lights, the music, the special effects, it was nothing short of magical and it was by far the most elaborate production I had ever seen. I decided that I wanted to be part of musical productions, and the second I hit high school I auditioned for every musical available to me. I was in Les Miserables, Newsies, Oklahoma, and Footloose, the latter two playing lead roles of Aunt Eller and Ariel, respectively. I was a winner of the NAMT Songwriting Challenge for 2024, which led to my song being debuted on a Broadway-adjacent stage. The Musical theater community has been life-changing to me, but Wicked was a pivotal moment in my journey as both a performer and a musician.

I do not claim to be An astronaut With my words. I do not travel to other worlds. I do not change the course of history. I do not bound across the line Of what has been thought to be previously possible. I do not clothe myself in titles that mark themselves across the globe. No, I am not an astronaut. I do not stare longingly out the window Watching the blues and greens and whites swirl together in sensation and finality. I do not miss my fellow patriots and comrades, Or mourn for loved ones While so far removed from the world we call residency. No, I am not an astronaut. I am, however, not a civilian. I do not stare in wonder at the sky, Marveling at the courage and dedication people have to reach such dizzying heights. I do not ogle at the blast of the ship Racing itself towards the heavens and the great beyond. I do not count down with the nation As the promise of our future leaves our little world, Our speck of a civilization Sprawling across continents and time periods as if to make something of itself. Oh, the great need to be great. greater. greatest. No, I am not an astronaut or a civilian. But I ache. Oh, great heavens, how I ache. I bleed in black and blue and red stains across respectable articles of clothing. I bleed in metaphors of hope and promise. I bleed in TSA 4 fluid-ounce bottles and great big gallon drums. I am not an astronaut. I do not go to other worlds. And I am not a civilian. I do not marvel at those who can leave the planet. Rather I tint the windows And the light And the sun I do not make a new world I color this one. In technicolor honesty, The stains are vibrant The metaphors are glittering The TSA bottles Are overflowing with the future in liquid form Metallic and simple It snakes its way through my vision Everything can shine Everything is worthy Anything is possible. I am sorry. I do not create worlds. I do not apply to your criteria. But I like to think the words make the world we see That the sentences will change my future That if I hit the right syntax The right stanza The right land mine I can bleed in a way That makes the sun a little brighter And the sky a little bluer And that maybe If I'm lucky The words will make the stars seem close.

I first discovered Chappell Roan from a friend of mine who told me that I had a similar sound to her. I'm a musician myself, and naturally, I was curious. I think this was in the early stage of Chappell blowing up, and I had no prior knowledge before I took a breath and clicked on the first single. What. The. Hell. It was magic. It was deep. And oddly enough, it was fun! I have become much more of a fan since the first run-through of Good Luck, Babe! but that first listen was insanely surreal. As I delved deeper, I became connected to songs like "After Midnight," "Naked in Manhatten," and "Love Me Anyways." But it wasn't just the songs. It was the singer. She was technical, she was flashy she was... Jumping up and down on a trampoline singing her songs? Oh yeah, Chappell does cardio workouts while singing so she can have better breath support and endurance during shows while still maintaining a good sound. Excuse me?? While I am still, admittedly, in the beginning, stages of falling down the Chappell Roan rabbit hole, the thing that consistently sticks out to me is her authenticity. Chappell Roan is no one but herself in any context I've ever seen her in. She obliterates the popstar box, all while steadily trekking the mountain of fame. It is absolutely incredible to see, and I have so much love for the person she is and the career that she's created.

My favorite athlete from Team USA is Katie Ledecky. When I was younger, I was a swimmer. I've always loved the water and when I got to about 5th grade, my parents decided to enroll me in my town's resident club team. I climbed the ranks, eventually being placed in the most advanced group less than a year from when I started swimming. And I was good. I was never the best on the team, but I was getting faster. And then I started to get burnt out. I started dreading going to practice, I mindlessly totaled up the amount of yards we swam each practice, and I wasn't excited for meets anymore. I eventually quit swimming to start volleyball, which I recently retired from after 7 meticulous years. I bounced around a lot when it came to sports. I tried fencing, sailing, swimming, volleyball, basketball, and now, tennis. But I have never really loved these things. I fell in love with music instead. The intricacy, the technique, and the rush of a performance; these things are a bright spot in my life. But sometimes I think back to swimming, about how I needed to find something that I loved, instead of something that became an obligation. At the 2024 Olympics, watching Katie Ledecky dominate year after year has been so inspiring. Swimming wasn't my thing, but it's something that Ledecky loves. And that kind of love inspires focus, dedication, and awe. With my previous experience in swimming, I know exactly how difficult it can be. And that is why I have so much admiration, spirit, and love for Katie Ledecky.