When my mom died suddenly, I didn’t know how to grieve. I was twelve, in shock, and surrounded by people who didn’t know what to say. Everyone told me to stay strong. So I did. Or at least I pretended to. But the truth was, I was falling apart inside. I didn’t sleep well. I cried in secret. I smiled when I felt like screaming. On the outside, I looked fine. On the inside, I was lost. I pushed down my feelings because I thought that’s what strength looked like. It took me over a year to admit I needed help. Saying yes to therapy wasn’t easy. I didn’t want to talk about what hurt. I didn’t want to open up to someone I didn’t know. But I went anyway. I sat on that couch and said things I had never said out loud. Slowly, something shifted. I stopped pretending I was okay, and started learning how to actually be okay. That choice to show up for myself, even when it was hard, taught me what real strength is. It’s not about having it all together. It’s about being honest with yourself. It’s about letting people in. It’s about choosing healing, even when it feels uncomfortable or scary. Since then, I’ve found other ways to care for my emotional and mental health. Music has become a huge part of that. I write songs about grief, anxiety, hope, and healing. I’ve performed at Experience Camps for grieving kids and spoken on podcasts like "Hello, my mom is dead" about what it means to keep living when someone you love is gone. I also help create content for GriefSucks.com, giving teens a safe space to talk about loss in a way that feels real. These are not things I would have imagined myself doing years ago. But they’ve helped me grow. Not just as an artist, but as a person. I’ve learned how to be more present. I’ve learned how to listen better. I’ve learned that making your health a priority doesn’t make you selfish. It makes you strong. As I prepare for college and for a future in music, I carry those lessons with me. I want to keep writing songs that heal. I want to create spaces where people feel seen. And I want to keep showing up for myself in the ways that matter most. Not just when things are easy, but especially when they’re hard. My path hasn’t been perfect. But it’s honest. And I’ve learned that taking care of your well-being is not extra. It’s the foundation for everything else.

I’ve never served in the military, and I wouldn’t pretend to fully understand what it feels like to come home from war. But I do know what it feels like to live with trauma. When I was twelve, my mom died unexpectedly. One day, she was cheering me on from the sidelines. The next, she was gone. The world stopped making sense. I felt like I had been dropped into a different reality, one where joy didn’t come as easily, where loud noises made me flinch, and where I had to remind myself just to breathe. At the time, I didn’t know that what I was experiencing shared some symptoms with PTSD. I only knew that something inside me had broken, and I wasn’t sure how to put it back together. Through years of therapy, songwriting, and honest conversations, I’ve slowly learned to live alongside my grief. I’ve learned that trauma doesn’t look the same for everyone, but it always asks the same hard questions. “Am I safe?” “Am I alone?” “Will I ever feel normal again?” That’s where I’ve found a connection to veterans. Not in the source of the pain, but in the aftershocks. In the way trauma can follow you home and show up in everyday life. In the way it isolates you unless someone reaches out and says, “Me too.” That’s why I’ve chosen to be vocal about mental health and grief. I’ve performed original songs about loss at Experience Camps for grieving children, where I’ve seen how music opens up conversations that words alone can’t reach. I’ve been a guest on podcasts where I talk about anxiety, healing, and what it means to keep going. I’ve also created content for GriefSucks.com, a platform that gives teens space to process grief honestly, without being told to move on. What I’ve learned from all of this is simple. People don’t need perfect advice. They need permission to feel what they feel, and a reminder that healing is possible. That’s something I hope to offer to veterans living with PTSD, not as someone who’s been in their boots, but as someone who understands what it means to carry invisible wounds. If there’s anything I’ve learned, it’s that we don’t have to be experts to make a difference. We just have to be willing to listen, share, and show up. Trauma isolates. Connection heals. I’ve lived it, and I want to help others believe in it too.

Mental health isn’t just important to me, it’s the reason I’m still here and creating music. When I was twelve, my mom died unexpectedly. I didn’t know how to process that kind of loss. I stopped talking to friends. I cried in secret. I had no idea how to explain what I was feeling, so I turned to something that didn’t require explanation: music. I picked up a ukulele my dad had given me and started writing songs. That’s how I began to grieve. Over time, songwriting became more than a coping mechanism. It became a way to explore my emotions and connect with others. That process taught me something powerful. Mental health is not just about surviving. It’s about finding ways to stay human through pain. That’s why mental health matters to me as a student. It’s not separate from learning. It’s part of it. I can’t focus in class or show up fully in life when I’m emotionally shut down. I’ve experienced both, and the difference is everything. Because of what I’ve been through, I’ve made it my mission to be honest about mental health and help others feel less alone. I’ve performed my songs about grief at Experience Camps where i volunteer to help all kids who have lost a parent, and seen how music opens doors for conversations kids aren’t usually given space to have. I’ve shared my story on podcasts like "Hello, my Mom is Dead" where I talk about anxiety, therapy, and what it’s like to lose a parent at a young age. And I contribute content to a platform called GriefSucks.com by creating content that gives teens a place to process loss without sugarcoating it. Even in my day-to-day life, I try to be the person who asks real questions like “How’s your heart?” instead of just “How are you?” I’ve learned that you don’t have to be a therapist to be an advocate. You just have to be someone who shows up. Mental health isn’t just a passion for me. It’s personal. It’s what saved me and continues to shape how I live, learn, and create. I want to keep writing music that heals, performing for organizations that care about emotional well-being, and building spaces where nobody feels like they have to hide what they’re going through. We don’t need to have perfect answers. But we do need to keep asking better questions. That’s how change begins.

My favorite song on Brat is “I Might Be In Love With You.” It’s not the most dramatic track, but it’s the one that stuck with me. It feels like someone thinking out loud, trying to figure out what they’re feeling without dressing it up or hiding behind metaphors. The line “You looked at me and I got scared” hit hard. It says so much without trying to be deep. Sometimes just being seen by someone can feel like too much, especially when you’re not sure what they see or what they’re looking for. That kind of vulnerability is real, and it’s rare to hear it so plainly in a song. The whole thing lives in this uncertain space where you’re kind of in love but not totally ready to admit it. Most love songs either go all in or fall apart, but this one just sits in the middle. I like that. I like that it’s messy and unresolved. Musically, it’s soft and stripped back. No overproduction. The beat stays out of the way and lets the lyrics do the work. That’s something I’ve started to notice more as a songwriter. Sometimes the strongest songs are the quiet ones, the ones that don’t try to hit every note or make a big point. This track reminded me that it’s okay to write from the middle of a feeling instead of after you’ve figured everything out. It made me think about some of the songs I’ve written where I wasn’t totally sure what I was trying to say, but I knew how it felt. That’s what makes this song stand out to me. It’s honest. It’s a little uncomfortable. But it’s real. That’s why it’s my favorite. Not because it tries the hardest, but because it doesn’t try to be anything other than what it is.

I’ve always known that music was powerful. But I didn’t fully understand just how much it could mean to someone until I wrote a song for two young twins who had lost their dad. It was part of a project with A Song For You, an organization that writes custom songs for people in hospice. These twins had lost their father suddenly, and I was asked to help them tell their story through a song. I spent time getting to know them, learning what they missed most about him, what made him special, and how his loss had changed them. I took everything they shared and turned it into lyrics and melody. The song became a way for them to hold on to his memory and express things they didn’t know how to say. Seeing their reaction when they heard it for the first time was one of the most emotional and meaningful moments I’ve ever had. That experience reminded me that music is more than just sound. It’s connection. It’s healing. When I was twelve, I lost my own mom. It flipped my whole world upside down. At the time, I didn’t know how to talk about it, but music gave me a way to process it. I wrote songs when I couldn’t sleep. I played guitar when the sadness felt too heavy. Slowly, song by song, I started to feel more like myself again. Writing music helped me get through something I didn’t think I could survive. Now, I want to give that same kind of healing to others. Whether it’s through writing for someone grieving, playing live shows, or releasing songs that speak to the hard stuff, I want my music to help people feel less alone. I want to keep doing projects like A Song For You, and I want to grow as a writer and performer so I can reach even more people. In the future, I hope to write songs not just for myself, but for artists, nonprofits, and anyone who needs their story turned into music. I also want to advocate for mental health and grief awareness. I’ve been part of the founding content team for GriefSucks.com, a project from Experience Camps that helps grieving kids. That, along with my own loss, has made me passionate about using my voice to bring comfort, truth, and light to dark places. I don’t want to be known just for performing. I want to be known for making music that matters. Songs that someone listens to at 2 a.m. because they’re heartbroken. Songs that play at a memorial or a celebration of life. Songs that bring peace. Music helped save me, and now I want to use it to help others. That’s how I plan to make a difference. The performance I have attached is of me performing my original song "Get Me" at a songwriters roundtable at Berklee last summer. This song is about what its like to be in grief and to find someone who, like you, has experienced loss and just understands you without words. This song is my story. There is also a recording of the song for thw twins on my website www.tinalarosa.com

’m Tina LaRosa. I’m a singer-songwriter from New Jersey, and I’ve been performing and writing music since I was a kid. Music has always been my way of making sense of the world. It helped me get through losing my mom. It helped me process anxiety. It helped me connect with people when I didn’t have the words. Over time, it became more than a passion. It became my path. I’ve spent the past few years doing everything I can to grow as a songwriter and performer. I’ve played shows at iconic New York venues like 54 Below and The Bitter End, I’ve performed at benefit concerts and school events, and I’ve busked on the streets of Long Beach Island all summer long. I started that just to get more comfortable playing in front of strangers, but it became one of the best things I’ve ever done. It taught me to stay present, to take risks, and to never stop improving. I also spent a summer at Berklee’s 5-week program and studied in Valencia, Spain through Berklee’s 2-week songwriting program. Both experiences made it clear that this is what I want to do with my life. So where do I see myself in five years? In five years, I want to be living in a city where music is alive and everywhere. Maybe it’s New York. Maybe it’s Nashville. I want to be collaborating with other artists, co-writing songs in studio sessions, and pitching my music to artists, labels, and sync agents. I don’t just want to write songs for myself. I want to write for others too. I want to create the kind of music that helps people through their own hardest days, or gives them the soundtrack for their best ones. I also want to keep performing. Not just at coffee shops and school auditoriums, but on bigger stages, opening for artists I admire, and maybe even touring. But more than anything, I want to keep creating music that matters. I want to build a body of work that reflects what I care about: grief, healing, hope, love, anxiety, all of it. I want my music to be real and vulnerable and something people can hold on to. Alongside that, I want to keep advocating for mental health and grief awareness. I was part of the founding content team for GriefSucks.com, a project of Experience Camps, and I’ve seen firsthand how creativity can help people heal. In five years, I’d love to be in a position where I can support causes like that on a bigger scale, whether it’s through benefit concerts, partnerships, or just showing up with honesty and care. My five-year plan is not about chasing fame. It’s about making an impact through music, building a career I’m proud of, and staying true to the things that shaped me. I know it won’t be easy. But I’ve been putting in the work, and I’m ready for what comes next.

I’ve lived in New Jersey my whole life, and it has shaped everything about who I am. This state is full of contrast. We have busy cities and quiet suburbs, diners on every corner, and beaches that stretch for miles. But for me, New Jersey isn’t just where I grew up. It’s where I became who I am. It’s where I found music, learned how to connect with people, and discovered what kind of life I want to build. Some of my strongest memories are from Long Beach Island. I spent every summer there with my family, and it was my mom’s favorite place. After she passed away unexpectedly, LBI became even more meaningful. It was the place where I felt closest to her, and also where I started to find my voice. That’s where I began busking.. setting up in coffee shops with my ukulele and guitar and playing for anyone who would listen. At first it was terrifying. But as the weeks went on, I started growing. I learned how to read a crowd, how to keep going even when no one stopped, and how to hold someone’s attention with nothing but a song and a few chords. I didn’t just become a better performer. I became more confident, more open, and more sure of my path. Music has always been personal for me. I started writing songs in middle school, mostly as a way to cope with grief and anxiety. I didn’t know how to talk about what I was feeling, but I could sing about it. Songwriting became my therapy. I would sit with my guitar for hours, writing and rewriting lines until they finally said what I needed to say. The more I wrote, the more I realized I wanted to make music not just for myself, but for anyone who needed to feel understood. New Jersey also taught me about community. After my mom’s death, people showed up for me in quiet but powerful ways. Neighbors brought food, teachers checked in, and friends stayed close. I never forgot that. It showed me that grief isn’t something you go through alone, and that a strong community can make even the worst days a little more bearable. That experience led me to projects like GriefSucks.com, where I was part of the founding content team. We built honest, creative tools to help other grieving kids feel less isolated. That work mattered to me. It still does. Growing up here also gave me grit. People in New Jersey are tough. They speak their minds and work hard. That energy rubbed off on me. I’ve performed in all kinds of settings—from school concerts to 54 Below and The Bitter End in New York City. I’ve learned how to hustle, how to promote my music, and how to stay committed even when it’s hard. My dream is to be a professional songwriter and artist. I want to write songs that make people feel something real. Songs that say what someone else might not be able to. New Jersey gave me the stories, the strength, and the spark to chase that dream. And I’m ready to keep going.

I’ve never been to an EDM festival, but I already know which one I want to attend: Electric Forest. I’ve watched the recap videos, read stories from fans, and listened to the sets that artists have performed there. What draws me in isn’t just the music or the lights, though those are incredible. It’s the atmosphere. People describe Electric Forest as a place where you can be completely yourself and still feel entirely accepted, where strangers become friends in minutes, and where you leave with more than a good time—you leave with a sense of connection. A close friend of mine is an EDM producer and a regular at festivals like Electric Forest. She introduced me to the EDM world. Through her, I started exploring the music, learning about artists, and hearing what the community is really about. It didn’t take long before I realized this was more than just a genre. It’s a culture built around values I already believe in. The artist I would be most excited to see live is Illenium. His songs blend intense drops with real emotional storytelling, which is something I try to do in my own music too. His work is proof that EDM can be more than just hype—it can be healing. “Good Things Fall Apart” and “Takeaway” are both songs I go back to when I need to process something personal. Seeing him perform live in that kind of setting would be a full-circle moment. The phrase “Peace, Love, Unity, and Respect” might sound simple, but to me, it’s a blueprint for how to treat people, especially in spaces where everyone is coming from different places. Peace means creating space for calm in a chaotic world. Love means showing up for people with compassion, not judgment. Unity is about finding common ground with people who might seem totally different from you. And Respect means listening and being open, even when you don’t agree. These values are what I try to bring into my own community. I’m a singer-songwriter, and many of my songs are about grief, anxiety, and healing. I lost my mom suddenly when I was young, and that shaped how I see the world. It’s why I care so much about mental health and why I use my music to reach people who are hurting. I’ve performed at benefit concerts, grief support events, and school functions where the goal was to open conversations and help people feel less alone. What I admire most about the EDM community is how it turns those same values into action. At festivals, people trade kandi bracelets with messages like “you are loved” or “stay strong.” They help each other out, even if they’ve never met. That sense of collective care is something I want to experience in person and bring into my own music and performances. Electric Forest isn’t just a dream destination. It represents a culture I already feel connected to and a community I want to keep learning from. I hope to attend soon—not just to hear Illenium or dance with thousands of people—but to live out Peace, Love, Unity, and Respect in a way that shapes how I show up in the world.

In music, collaboration is everything. It’s not just about blending sounds, it’s about blending hearts. It’s about trusting someone else with your story, listening deeply to theirs, and creating something that neither of you could have made alone. For me, collaboration is where the real magic of music happens. Some of the most meaningful experiences I’ve had as a musician have been collaborations with other artists and songwriters. One of those moments was at 54 Below in New York City, where I performed for a benefit concert for Experience Camps, a nonprofit for grieving kids. I got to share the stage with professional musicians, many of whom have been on Broadway. Standing beside people with that kind of talent could’ve been intimidating, but instead, it felt like we were all there for the same reason. We weren’t just performing, we were telling a story together. Every harmony, every chord, every shared glance between verses made me feel like I was part of something bigger. It wasn’t about showing off. It was about showing up, and lifting each other up along the way. Another powerful experience happened at The Bitter End, where I performed with A Song For You, a nonprofit that writes songs for families in hospice. The song we shared was written for a family who had recently lost someone they loved. I co-wrote it with another musician, and we performed it together onstage. It wasn’t just about musical chemistry. It was about emotional trust. We had to be completely in sync...not just musically, but emotionally too. That kind of collaboration takes vulnerability. You have to listen closely, not just with your ears, but with your whole self. That night reminded me that music can be a form of service, and that the strongest performances often come from the deepest connections between people. The Berklee summer programs took that even further. I’ve attended both the two-week program in Valencia and the five-week program in Boston, and both were filled with nonstop collaboration. I worked with students from all over the world, writing songs together, arranging harmonies, performing in bands, and giving each other feedback late into the night. We came from different places, played different styles, and had different influences, but somehow, we found common ground through the music. I learned how to compromise, how to speak up, and how to make room for other voices. I learned that sometimes the best part of a song comes from someone else’s idea. And I learned how to let go of control and trust the process. Collaboration has taught me that music is not a solo journey. Even when I write songs alone, I carry the voices of everyone I’ve worked with. Every person I’ve shared a stage or a writing session with has helped me grow into the artist I am becoming. My dream is to keep creating music that connects people, and to keep building songs with others that are honest, real, and full of heart. To me, collaboration means being brave enough to create together...and kind enough to celebrate each other when the music finally comes to life.

I was twelve when my mom died. I don’t even remember the days right after. People kept telling me to be strong, but I didn’t know what that actually meant. I just knew everything was different. One day she was here. The next, she wasn’t. I didn’t talk about it much. I didn’t want to make other people uncomfortable. I didn’t want to cry in front of anyone. So I started writing songs. I wrote late at night when I couldn’t sleep. I wasn’t trying to be a songwriter. I was just trying to get the feelings out. That’s what helped me get through that first year. Writing. Playing the piano. Just getting through the days. Some songs were messy. Some were sad. Some were just questions. But they were mine. Eventually, I sang one of those songs at an open mic. A woman came up to me after and said, “That’s exactly how I feel.” That stuck with me. I realized maybe I wasn’t the only one trying to make sense of something painful. Maybe the songs weren’t just for me anymore. Since then, I’ve been using my music to connect with others. I’ve played at 54 Below and The Bitter End, and at little beach restaurants and coffee shops. I’ve written original songs for families in hospice through A Song For You. I’ve performed at grief fundraisers and mental health events. I want people to feel something when they hear my music. I want them to know they aren’t alone. At school, I started a songwriting club. I wanted others to have a safe place to share what they were working on. I also helped lead mental health awareness campaigns. I’ve raised money for suicide prevention and performed for community events. I listen to my friends when they’re going through something. I show up. Even when I don’t have the right words, I try to be there. There are still hard days. But I’ve learned how to carry both sadness and joy. I’ve learned that just because something is heavy doesn’t mean you have to carry it alone. And I’ve learned that turning pain into something meaningful is one of the most powerful things you can do. I’ve also worked hard in school. I’ve kept up my grades while helping out at home and performing. I’ve attended Berklee’s summer programs in Boston and Valencia, Spain. I’m going to Berklee full time this fall, and it feels like everything I’ve been through is leading me there. I’m proud of what I’ve done. Not just the shows or the awards. I’m proud that I kept going. I kept writing. I kept caring. People think resilience looks like a big dramatic moment. But for me, it looks like showing up when you don’t feel like it. It looks like singing a song you wrote in your bedroom and watching it make someone cry because they feel seen. That’s the kind of success that matters to me.

If I had to describe myself in one word, it would be creative. From a young age, music was always in my life, thanks to my mom. Our house was filled with the sounds of classic rock and folk songs. I learned to play guitar and started writing songs to express how I felt about the world around me. When I lost my mom unexpectedly, music became much more than a hobby. It became a lifeline that helped me process grief and connect with others who felt alone in their struggles. My dream is to turn my love of music into a career as a songwriter and performer. I want to write honest songs that speak to real experiences, especially the tough ones. My goal is not just to entertain but to help people feel understood and supported. I have already seen the impact music can have, both on myself and the people I have written for through projects like A Song For You and Experience Camps. When someone tells me that my song made them feel less alone or helped them open up about their own story, I know I am on the right path. What excites me most about this career is the power music has to start conversations and bring people together. Songwriting lets me talk about mental health, grief, love, and hope in a way that reaches people on a deep level. I have met kids at camp and school who struggle to talk about their feelings, but when we play music together, it becomes easier. I want to use my career to create more spaces like that—places where people can express themselves, heal, and build supportive communities. Supporting women’s empowerment is also a big part of my journey. The music industry has not always been easy for women, and I want to be part of changing that. I started my high school’s songwriting club to give all students, especially girls, a safe space to write, perform, and lead. In the club, I encourage everyone to share their ideas and support one another. I hope I am helping other young women find the courage to use their voices and tell their stories. I look up to artists who have used their platforms to speak out for equality and challenge stereotypes. As I move forward, I want to collaborate with and mentor young women in music, so that together we can lift each other up. In college and beyond, I plan to get involved in organizations that promote women in the arts, and I hope to lead workshops or retreats that focus on women’s creativity and confidence. I chose this path because I believe music can change lives. It changed mine, and now I want to give that gift to others. My dream is to be a songwriter and performer who inspires honesty, strength, and community. I hope to break barriers for women in music and help create a world where everyone feels free to share their story. That is the impact I want to have, and I am ready to work for it every step of the way.

If there is one thing that has shaped who I am, it is my love for music. I grew up in a house filled with my mom’s favorite songs, from classic rock to folk and everything in between. Music was always playing, whether it was coming from the speakers or from my own guitar. I did not realize until I was older how much those moments would mean to me, or how music would eventually become both my therapy and my way to give back to others. When my mom died unexpectedly, my whole world changed. I was lost in grief, and it was hard to talk about what I was feeling. Picking up my guitar and writing songs gave me a safe way to express emotions I could not put into words. What started as a way to process my own pain turned into something much bigger. As I shared my music with others, I discovered that my songs could help people feel understood, less alone, and even comforted in their own struggles. That realization is what has inspired me to make a career out of music and use it as a force for good. I have already seen the impact music can have through my work with organizations like Experience Camps, griefsucks.com, and A Song For You. At Experience Camps, I serve on the Youth Advisory Board and perform at events to support other kids who have lost a parent or sibling. With griefsucks.com, I help provide honest resources and real stories for grieving teens. As a songwriter for A Song For You, I write personalized songs for families facing illness or loss, offering them comfort during the hardest times. Each of these experiences has shown me that music is more than entertainment. It is a way to build community, break down barriers, and give people a sense of hope. I have seen it open up conversations about mental health, loss, and healing—topics that are often hard to talk about in everyday life. By sharing my own story through music, I hope to encourage others to share theirs as well. Looking to the future, I plan to continue my education at Berklee College of Music. I want to develop my skills as a songwriter and performer, but also learn how to use technology, collaboration, and leadership to reach even more people. My goal is to expand projects like griefsucks.com, create new workshops for kids and teens, and bring music-based healing into more schools and communities. I want to use what I learn to build programs that help young people talk about their feelings, support one another, and grow stronger together. I believe that a successful career is not just about personal achievements. For me, it is about making a positive impact and using my voice to help others find theirs. I want to keep writing songs that matter, building communities that support each other, and making sure no one feels alone in what they are facing. That is the mark I hope to leave on the world, and it is what motivates me every single day.

Throughout my life, giving back through music and community projects has shaped who I am and what I want to do with my future. Some of my proudest accomplishments are being a founding member of griefsucks.com and writing personalized songs for families in hospice as part of A Song For You. These experiences have taught me the power of creativity, empathy, and connection. They have also given me a clear sense of purpose as I look ahead to further education. Griefsucks.com began as an idea among a few grieving teens, myself included at Experience Camps, who wanted to create an honest, welcoming space for other young people coping with loss. We built a website where kids and teens could share stories, advice, and coping strategies. We wanted anyone who felt alone or misunderstood to know they could find community and understanding. Working on this project, I wrote articles, created content for Instagram and TikTok, and reached out to others to share their stories. Seeing the impact on young people who found comfort through griefsucks.com showed me how even small projects can make a real difference. Writing songs for A Song For You has also been a powerful experience. Families facing illness or loss share their stories with me, and I write custom songs that reflect their loved ones and memories. Sometimes, when words fail, music can say what needs to be felt. I have seen firsthand how a song can bring comfort during the most difficult moments. Every family I work with reminds me how important it is to listen, create, and care. My work does not stop there. I served on the Youth Advisory Board for Experience Camps, a national organization for grieving children. I perform my music at community events and fundraisers that help bring people together and start conversations about mental health and loss. Looking ahead, I know that further education will help me continue and expand this work. Attending Berklee College of Music will give me the training and resources to improve as a songwriter and performer. More importantly, it will give me the chance to collaborate with musicians and teachers who share my passion for using art to heal and connect. I want to learn new ways to reach people, whether that means producing albums that speak to difficult topics, or developing programs that use songwriting to support kids and teens in need. With the skills and experience I gain, I plan to keep building projects like griefsucks.com and A Song For You, reaching more young people across the country. I want to organize workshops and retreats where students can use the arts to share their feelings, find support, and discover their strengths. I hope to help schools and communities create spaces where mental health and grief are not hidden, but faced together with honesty and care. Education is more than personal growth for me. It is a way to turn my passion into action and make a lasting, positive difference. I want to use what I learn to bring hope, comfort, and creativity to as many people as possible. Every project I work on, every song I write, and every connection I make will be dedicated to building a world where nobody feels alone in their struggles. That is how I plan to use my education to make an impact, and that is what motivates me every day.

Arts education has shaped my life in ways I never could have predicted. From the very beginning, music was always in our home. My mom played Fleetwood Mac, Billy Joel, and the Beatles as she cooked or cleaned. I started singing along before I really knew what music even was. Later, I learned to play guitar and discovered songwriting as a way to make sense of what I was feeling. Through each stage of growing up, arts education gave me an outlet, a purpose, and a sense of belonging. When I was younger, I was shy about performing in front of others. School music classes and after-school programs helped me step outside my comfort zone. The first time I sang in a talent show, I was terrified, but the encouragement from my teachers and classmates made me want to keep going. Every new performance built my confidence a little more. Being a part of band, choir, and songwriting club at school showed me that art is not about perfection. It is about expression, connection, and growth. Music became especially important after my mom died. Grief was overwhelming, and I did not know how to talk about it. Songwriting became my therapy. It allowed me to process sadness, anger, and confusion in a way that words alone never could. Arts education made it possible for me to take private pain and turn it into something I could share with others. My teachers supported me in writing about real-life experiences, even when the subjects were heavy. They showed me that vulnerability is a strength, not a weakness. Being part of my school’s jazz band and starting my own songwriting club also introduced me to a whole new community. I met other students who used music and art to get through tough times, just like I did. The friendships and collaborations I built through the arts helped me feel less alone. Together, we learned that art can heal, connect, and inspire. The person who inspired me most was my mom. She believed in the power of music and creativity. Even though she is no longer here, her encouragement echoes in everything I do. She always told me to keep going, to play one more song, and to use my voice even when it felt shaky. When I doubted myself, she was the one who reminded me that what I had to say mattered. Her love for music became the foundation for my own. I have also been pushed to pursue my craft by teachers who saw potential in me. They challenged me to try new styles, to step into leadership roles, and to perform at bigger venues. Their support made me want to work harder and helped me believe in my ability to grow as an artist. Through my dad's support I've published 25 songs on all streaming platforms - hoping to help people thru my music. Looking back, I know I would not be who I am today without arts education and the people who encouraged me along the way. The arts have given me a place to be myself, to process my experiences, and to help others do the same. I hope to keep paying that forward, using music to connect with and inspire the next generation, just as my mom and my teachers did for me.

Giving back has become a central part of my life, especially after losing my mom. When she died, I felt isolated and overwhelmed. Music became my outlet and, over time, also became my way to connect with others who were struggling. What started as a tool for my own healing turned into something bigger—a way to support my community and help others feel less alone. Currently, I give back through music and community service. I am the founder and president of my high school’s songwriting club. We meet every week to write, share, and perform music together. The club is more than just a group for musicians; it’s a safe space where students can express themselves and process difficult emotions. Some students come to share original songs about loss, stress, or anxiety, while others just come to listen and know they are not alone. Seeing people find comfort through creativity is one of the most rewarding things I have experienced. Outside of school, I am actively involved with Experience Camps, an organization for kids who have lost a parent or sibling. I serve on their Youth Advisory Board, help organize events, and perform my original songs at camp gatherings and benefit concerts. I also contributed to the launch of griefsucks.com, a resource created by grieving teens for grieving teens. Through this work, I help provide support and understanding to people who are dealing with loss. My hope is that sharing my story and music can make someone else’s journey a little easier. I also volunteer as a songwriter for A Song For You, a nonprofit that creates personalized songs for families in hospice care or dealing with major illness or loss. I listen to each family’s story and then write and record a song just for them. Sometimes, music can say what words alone cannot. It’s a small gesture, but families have told me it brings them comfort in a difficult time. Knowing that my music helps others heal makes every late night writing session worth it. Looking to the future, I want to keep using music to make a positive impact. I plan to attend Berklee College of Music to further develop my skills as a songwriter and performer. My dream is to write songs that shine a light on mental health, grief, and healing, and to use my platform to support causes I care about. I also want to continue leading workshops for young people, giving them tools to express themselves and build supportive communities through creativity. Long term, I hope to expand the reach of griefsucks.com and similar projects, making resources for grieving kids and teens available across the country. I want to use what I have learned from my own loss to help others find hope and strength. Whether I am performing on stage, leading a group, or writing a song for someone in need, my goal is always the same: to use my voice to make someone else’s journey a little brighter. Giving back has taught me that even small acts can make a big difference. I want to keep using my experiences, my story, and my music to help others, and to create a world where no one feels alone in their struggles

To me, “One heart, one beat” means we’re all connected by something deeper than words: by emotion, by love, by rhythm. It’s about showing up for one another, staying in sync when life feels chaotic, and choosing unity over isolation. It reminds me of what I’ve felt through music and what I’ve learned through grief. When I was 12, I lost my mom very suddenly. It was the kind of moment that divides life into before and after. Everything felt still, like time had paused. I was surrounded by people, yet I felt completely alone. I was flooded with emotions I didn’t know how to carry, and for a while, I didn’t know how to feel anything at all. But somehow, through all that stillness, music found me. One day, I picked up a ukulele that had been collecting dust in the corner of my room. I didn’t know what I was doing, but I started to play anyway. Slowly, strum by strum, I found something that felt like a heartbeat again. Not just mine, but something bigger. The heartbeat of connection: with my family, with others who understood pain, and with a version of myself who believed healing was possible. That’s the rhythm I live in now. I believe “One heart, one beat” is what happens when we truly listen to each other. Not just with our ears, but with our full selves. When we play together, cry together, lift each other up. It’s what I’ve experienced at Experience Camps, a place for kids like me who’ve lost someone close. We come from different towns, different families, different cultures, but when we’re together, there’s this unspoken understanding. We don’t have to explain our grief. We just feel it together. And when we sing around a campfire, all our different voices become one. That’s “one beat.” That’s healing. It also makes me think of people like Joseph Natale, the kind of person who builds community not just with words but with actions. Who lifts people up and leads with heart. He reminds me of the kind of legacy I hope to leave someday: one built on compassion, empathy, and showing up for others when it matters most. I think my mom would’ve loved that. And I think she’d be proud that I’m doing my best to turn my own pain into purpose. Today, whether I’m writing a song, performing onstage, volunteering with Experience Camps, or just being there for a friend who’s hurting, I try to live in that rhythm. The rhythm of listening. The rhythm of love. The rhythm of choosing to walk beside others, no matter what they’re going through. One heart. One beat. Always together.

Music has always been more than just a passion for me. It has been a way to heal, to connect, and to give something meaningful back to the world. After losing my mom suddenly when I was twelve, I struggled to process emotions I didn’t have words for. That’s when songwriting became my lifeline. It allowed me to say what I couldn’t speak, and eventually, it gave me purpose. Over time, I realized that my story isn’t unique. Too many young people carry invisible grief or anxiety. But I also learned that music has a quiet power to reach people in those places. Whether it’s writing a song that helps someone feel seen or performing something that gives someone hope, I’ve seen how art can start conversations that words alone can’t. That’s why I plan to study songwriting and music performance at Berklee College of Music. I want to grow as both a writer and a performer so I can tell more honest and impactful stories. Stories that resonate with people going through their own hard things. My long-term goal is to create music that doesn’t just entertain but supports emotional and mental well-being, especially for young people navigating grief, anxiety, or identity. I’ve already started doing this work through A Song For You, a nonprofit songwriting collective that writes custom songs for families in hospice care. Sitting with a family, learning their story, and turning it into a song they’ll carry forever is one of the most powerful things I’ve ever done. It has also shown me how music can be a form of service, not just expression. I’ve also been involved with Experience Camps and GriefSucks.com, two organizations that support grieving kids. I’ve written and performed songs about loss and healing for these communities, and each time I do, I’m reminded how much power lives in a single lyric when it’s written with truth and care. Through my degree, I plan to keep building these bridges. I want to write songs that become safe spaces for people. I want to work with nonprofits, schools, and community centers to use songwriting and music workshops as tools for connection and healing. I’ve even started a songwriting club at school so students have a creative outlet to share what they’re feeling. I hope to create more programs like this in the future. Education in the arts is often seen as a luxury, but for me and for many others, it’s survival. It’s the thing that helped me hold on when life felt like too much. Now I want to use what I’ve learned, and what I’ll continue learning, to help others do the same.

Growing up, finances were never just background noise in my life. They were something I understood from a young age, not because of formal education, but because I watched my family live with the realities of financial strain. After my mom passed away when I was twelve, my dad became a single parent raising three kids. From that point on, money was something we always had to think carefully about. I remember how carefully my dad planned everything, how we reused and fixed things instead of buying new ones, and how little luxuries became rare and special. I learned that saving was not just smart; it was necessary. Even when money was tight, being resourceful made a real difference. In a way, I got my first financial education just by watching how my dad stretched every dollar. In school, real financial education was limited. While I learned basics about budgeting and economics, most of what I know came from personal experience. Understanding the cost of college, applying for scholarships, and realizing how important credit and savings are did not come from textbooks. They came from real conversations at home and lessons I pieced together myself. My experience as a musician has also taught me a lot about finances. Whether it was saving up for studio time, budgeting for travel to gigs, or learning about streaming royalties, I had to think about money in a real way. I learned that being an artist also means being a businessperson. Every creative decision has financial consequences, and understanding that early has made me more careful and strategic. As I move forward, I know that gaining a stronger financial education is critical for building a stable future. I plan to take courses in financial literacy, business management, and music industry economics while attending Berklee College of Music. I want to understand how to manage income from multiple sources, budget for projects, invest wisely, and protect myself legally and financially. I also want to be able to read contracts, understand taxes, and plan for long-term goals like homeownership and retirement. Financial stability would allow me to focus fully on my music without constant anxiety about how to pay the bills. It would give me the freedom to invest in my career, whether that means funding tours, producing albums, or building my own music company one day. It would also allow me to give back to the communities that have supported me, like Experience Camps. Beyond personal success, I want to help others. I know how hard it is to grow up without a lot of financial guidance, and I want to pass on real, useful knowledge to other young artists. Whether it is mentoring a younger musician or offering advice one day, I want to help change the culture around financial literacy in creative fields. Money may not buy happiness, but financial knowledge can provide security, independence, and opportunities. My personal experiences have shown me the importance of learning everything I can. By committing to financial education, I am not just investing in my success as an artist. I am investing in my ability to build a life based on freedom, generosity, and creativity.

When I think about the people who shaped me during high school, Mrs. Lauren Vanderhoef immediately comes to mind. She was more than my English teacher. She was someone who helped me find my voice during one of the hardest and most important times of my life. I met Mrs. Vanderhoef during my freshman year when I took Honors English. I had already been through a lot by then. Losing my mom at twelve changed the way I saw the world, and even though I smiled and worked hard, there was a lot of pain underneath. Somehow, Mrs. Vanderhoef saw the full version of me. She made her classroom feel like a place where it was safe to be yourself, even when life was messy or complicated. It was the first time I realized that my thoughts, my writing, and my story had value. In class, she encouraged open discussions. She truly listened to what we had to say, even if our answers were not the ones she expected. That simple act of listening helped build my confidence not only as a student but as a person. It made me believe that my perspective mattered, and it showed me that good leaders are the ones who make others feel heard. During my junior year, I had her again for AP English Language and Composition. That year, I started the Songwriting Club, and Mrs. Vanderhoef agreed to be the advisor without hesitation. She cheered me on, helped me organize meetings, and celebrated every student who walked through the door with a guitar, a notebook, or even just a few lines of lyrics. She made all of us feel like what we were creating was important. Watching her lead with so much kindness and support taught me that success is not just about personal achievement. It is about lifting up the people around you. Mrs. Vanderhoef’s positivity stood out the most. Every morning, no matter how early it was, she would greet the class with energy and warmth. Most people had no idea what I had been through, but she seemed to understand that even when life feels heavy, you can still choose to bring light into a room. That lesson stayed with me and became a big part of how I approach my music and my life today. Starting high school after a major loss made it easy to be guarded. Mrs. Vanderhoef showed me that vulnerability is not a weakness. It is where real connection happens. Because of her, I learned to share my story more openly, whether it was in a song, a conversation, or an essay. She helped me believe that even the parts of my life that were hardest could become a source of strength and creativity. As I head to Berklee College of Music, her influence continues to guide me. I want my music to create the same sense of belonging that she created in her classroom. I want to be someone who helps others feel heard and seen. Most of all, I want to live with the same kind of kindness, patience, and belief in others that she showed me. Mrs. Vanderhoef taught me a lot about writing, but what she really taught me was how to live a meaningful life. Her lessons are with me every time I pick up my guitar, walk into a new room, or decide to believe in myself even when it feels scary. I am forever grateful that she was part of my story.

I’ve never worn a jersey or played under stadium lights, but I am absolutely an athlete. My sport is music—specifically songwriting, guitar, ukulele, and vocal performance. Just like any other sport, it takes daily discipline, strength, endurance, and the ability to keep showing up even when the odds are stacked against you. And in a world where many musical spaces—especially production, performance, and leadership—are still dominated by men, being a young woman in music requires an extra layer of resilience. Balancing my “sport” with school and life hasn’t always been easy. Music is emotional work, but it’s also technical, physical, and deeply time-consuming. While other students were practicing drills or rehearsing for games, I was memorizing chord progressions, writing lyrics between classes, and working through vocal scales after midnight. I’d spend weekends editing recordings, preparing for performances, or writing content for platforms like GriefSucks.com, where I use my music and story to support grieving teens. I’ve also been fortunate to work with A Song For You, writing and performing original music for families in hospice—an experience that requires a unique kind of emotional strength. Doing all of this while keeping up with academics taught me how to manage pressure, stay focused under stress, and believe in the long game—just like any athlete would. But being a female artist adds another layer: navigating an industry where women are often underestimated, overlooked, or boxed into stereotypes. I’ve seen firsthand how women are often expected to fit into a mold—sound a certain way, look a certain way, write “safe” songs that don’t rock the boat. Choosing to be my authentic self, to write the kind of music that reflects real emotions, and to own my space as a young woman with something to say—that takes courage. And it’s a courage I’ve earned by showing up every single day to train in my “sport.” Being a musician has helped me grow into a more confident and capable young woman. It’s helped me find my voice—literally and figuratively—and use it to speak out on issues that matter, whether that’s mental health, grief, or empowerment. It’s taught me how to lead, collaborate, and keep pushing even when things get hard or when I’m the only girl in the room. Most of all, it’s helped me realize that being “strong” doesn’t always mean loud or aggressive. Sometimes it means steady. Sometimes it means soft and unshakable. I believe that redefining what it means to be an athlete, an artist, and a female leader is how we start to change the game. My journey through music has shown me that strength comes in many forms—and that there is power in creating, in feeling, in persevering, and in helping others do the same. So no, I may not have a trophy case. But I’ve built something better: a voice, a purpose, and a platform that I intend to use—for good.

When I was twelve, my world fell apart. My mom died suddenly from a heart attack at age 47 while running a local 5K race. Losing her so unexpectedly and so abruptly left me and my siblings reeling. But through the heartbreak and confusion, one person held us all together: my dad. Overnight, my dad became a single parent to three kids, balancing grief, work, and parenting with more strength than I think even he knew he had. He supported us emotionally, made sure we never missed a day of school, and somehow kept our family afloat, financially and spiritually, through the hardest time in our lives. He showed up to every concert, every school event, every moment that mattered. He made sure we got the professional help that we needed, and most importantly, he reminded me, over and over again, that I could still chase my dreams. He’s the reason I found music. After my mom died, I felt completely lost. Then, during the pandemic, I picked up a ukulele and started writing songs. My dad was the first person to listen, to encourage me, to say, “There’s something really special here.” He helped me launch a family music project, build a website, start a label, and believe in myself when it was hard to. I told him I wanted to go to music school. Not any music school, but Berklee College of Music, one of the most prestigious and exclusive schools in the world. He got me lessons, helped me release even more music, figured out how to obtain instruments, and pushed me to be my best. Now, because of his encouragement, just four short years later, I’ve committed to studying songwriting at Berklee. I want to use my music to help others feel seen, supported, and understood…just like my dad did for me. He taught me that life isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass. It’s about learning to dance in the rain (or in my case, write through it). That kind of strength and belief doesn’t just shape a child. It stays with us forever. I honor my dad by working hard, by leading with empathy, and by showing up for others who are going through something hard. I perform at events for grieving kids (Experience Camps), create content for GriefSucks.com, write personalized songs for hospice families (A Song For You), and lead a songwriting club at my school to give others a creative space to heal and grow. These are the ways I carry his love forward. His support has been the foundation of everything I’ve done and everything I hope to do. I wouldn’t be the student, songwriter, or human I am today without him. And every step I take toward my dreams, from the classrooms at Berklee to the stages where I perform, is a thank you to him. This scholarship would be a part of that legacy. A way to keep moving forward with the kind of resilience, work ethic, and heart that both my parents taught me…and that my dad, especially, lives out every single day.

Losing my mom when I was 12 turned my entire world upside down. Her death was sudden and completely unexpected. One moment she was with us, and then she wasn’t. I was left in shock, struggling with anxiety, grief, and the kind of sadness that’s hard to put into words. Isolated during the pandemic, I picked up a ukulele we had gotten for Christmas the year before and began teaching myself how to play. It started as a distraction, but soon became my outlet—and eventually, my healing. I wrote my first song a few months later. It wasn’t perfect, but it was mine. And for the first time since losing my mom, I felt like I had found a way to express what I was feeling without having to explain it. Music gave me a voice when I didn’t know how to speak. Since then, songwriting has become more than a coping mechanism—it’s become my purpose. That purpose led me to get involved with Experience Camps, a nonprofit that supports grieving children. I started as a camper, but eventually began sharing my original songs and speaking openly about my story. I’ve learned that many grieving kids get bullied—both in person and online—for showing sadness or just being “different.” That kind of judgment can be isolating and deeply harmful. So I’ve made it part of my mission to help create safer, more understanding spaces for kids like me. That’s why I helped launch GriefSucks.com and ExperienceCraft—a website and Minecraft world where grieving kids can safely connect with one another, express their emotions, and find community. These platforms are designed to fight back against bullying by giving young people the tools and space to be themselves. Whether it’s preventing cyberbullying or just giving kids a place where they feel less alone, this work is incredibly important to me—and it’s something I want to keep building as I grow. This fall, I’ll be starting at Berklee College of Music to study songwriting and performance. I want to continue using music to help others feel seen, heard, and understood. But getting to this point hasn’t been easy, especially financially. Since my mom passed away, my dad Mark has been doing everything he can to support me and my siblings—but he’s struggled to find stable, meaningful work since the pandemic. We’ve done our best to push forward as a family, but the financial strain is real. Any help I receive through scholarships or financial aid would directly support not just my education, but my larger mission—to use my music and my voice to help kids facing grief, anxiety, or bullying know that they are not alone.

It’s often said that the best art comes from a true place of darkness. My journey as an artist began during what was by far the darkest time of my life. When I was 12 years old, my mom died very suddenly from a heart-attack and completely pulled the ground from beneath my feet. Plummeting into anxiety, I desperately needed somewhere to put these complicated feelings. That’s when music found me. The year before my mom’s death, my sister and I received ukuleles for Christmas. She began learning, but mine remained untouched, despite my dreams of playing an instrument. After my mom died, isolated during the pandemic, I decided to give it a shot. Starting with just goofing off and watching YouTube videos, playing the ukulele brought me the first bit of joy I'd felt in a long time. A few months later, I wrote my first original song—a silly Christmas jingle. I’ll never forget the look in my dad’s tear-filled eyes as he listened. Worried, I asked, "Did I do something wrong?" He shook his head, laughing, and assured me there was something special there. From that moment, I continued writing songs, unaware that music had become my greatest emotional outlet. Eventually, my siblings and I created an album titled "Glass Half Full" as a family pandemic project. My brother, aspiring to be a producer, mixed the album; my sister, studying art, designed the cover; and my dad fueled our efforts by setting up my website, my label (Radiate Positivity Records), and managing global distribution. Through this project, I realized my true dream: to create music that could heal my own wounds and those of others. Encouraged by this passion, I continued writing, recording, and performing live. One of my first performances was at a gala for Experience Camps, a non-profit supporting grieving children. This camp profoundly changed my life, helping me find the courage to share my music and story. Through connections at Experience Camps, I joined "A Song For You," a non-profit creating personalized songs for hospice patients and their families. My first project involved writing a song for twin eight-year-olds who lost their father—nothing felt more fulfilling than this full-circle moment. Inspired, I founded a songwriting club at my high school, joined the Youth Advisory Board for Songs of Saving (a non-profit supporting mental health through music), and performed regularly at senior homes and local coffee shops. I truly fell in love with it all. A verse from a song I wrote called "Mom’s Song" sums up my story: "Mama thank you for the music. You’re my Meryl Streep. In my world that fell apart, I found a dream to help me sleep." Early on, I learned that life is incredibly unexpected. When life hands you the worst, it can also hand you the best. But most importantly, life is what you make it. I discovered the powerful impact music has on mental health, and it has become my mission to help others through my music.

When I was twelve, my mom died suddenly from a heart attack. That loss shook my entire world. Everything changed—emotionally, financially, and in the way I viewed the future. My dad became a single parent to three kids overnight. Grief hit hard, but what hit even harder was the realization that life isn’t guaranteed, and that we all have a choice in how we respond to that truth. I found my way forward through music. A year before my mom passed, my sister and I had received ukuleles for Christmas. Mine sat in the corner untouched—until I picked it up during the isolation of the pandemic, desperate for something that would make me feel whole again. I taught myself to play through YouTube videos, and eventually, I started writing. The first song I ever wrote was a goofy little Christmas jingle. I wasn’t expecting much, but when I played it for my dad, his eyes filled with tears. I asked if I had done something wrong. He shook his head and said, “No. There’s something special here.” That moment changed everything. Songwriting became my outlet, my therapy, my voice. It gave me a way to express everything I didn’t know how to say. From there, my siblings and I created an album called Glass Half Full—a family project that helped us process our grief and reconnect through something beautiful. My brother mixed the tracks, my sister designed the artwork, and my dad helped us launch our own label: Radiate Positivity Records. But that was just the beginning. I started performing at senior homes and small venues. I shared my songs at a gala for Experience Camps, a nonprofit for grieving children like me. Through that, I joined A Song For You, writing personalized songs for hospice patients and their families. My first project was for eight-year-old twins who had lost their dad. In that moment, I knew I had found something bigger than just a dream—I had found a calling. This fall, I’ll attend Berklee College of Music to study songwriting. I want to learn everything I can about the craft—so I can use it to tell stories that matter, create connection, and bring hope to people who feel alone. I want to keep writing for the kids who’ve lost parents, the patients facing goodbye, and the everyday people who just need someone to put their feelings into words. I’m worth the dreams I aspire to achieve because I’ve already started living them. I’ve built from loss, created from heartbreak, and led with heart. My dream isn’t about fame or recognition. It’s about purpose. And I’m ready to keep showing up—song by song, story by story—to make it real.

It’s often said that the best art comes from a true place of darkness. My journey as an artist began during what was by far the darkest time of my life. When I was 12 years old, my mom died very suddenly from a heart-attack and completely pulled the ground from beneath my feet. Plummeting into anxiety, I desperately needed somewhere to put these complicated feelings. That’s when music found me. The year before my mom’s death, my sister and I received ukuleles for Christmas. She began learning, but mine remained untouched, despite my dreams of playing an instrument. After my mom died, isolated during the pandemic, I decided to give it a shot. Starting with just goofing off and watching YouTube videos, playing the ukulele brought me the first bit of joy I'd felt in a long time. A few months later, I wrote my first original song—a silly Christmas jingle. I’ll never forget the look in my dad’s tear-filled eyes as he listened. Worried, I asked, "Did I do something wrong?" He shook his head, laughing, and assured me there was something special there. From that moment, I continued writing songs, unaware that music had become my greatest emotional outlet. Eventually, my siblings and I created an album titled "Glass Half Full" as a family pandemic project. My brother, aspiring to be a producer, mixed the album; my sister, studying art, designed the cover; and my dad fueled our efforts by setting up my website, my label (Radiate Positivity Records), and managing global distribution. Through this project, I realized my true dream: to create music that could heal my own wounds and those of others. Encouraged by this passion, I continued writing, recording, and performing live. One of my first performances was at a gala for Experience Camps, a non-profit supporting grieving children. This camp profoundly changed my life, helping me find the courage to share my music and story. Through connections at Experience Camps, I joined "A Song For You," a non-profit creating personalized songs for hospice patients and their families. My first project involved writing a song for twin eight-year-olds who lost their father—nothing felt more fulfilling than this full-circle moment. Inspired, I founded a songwriting club at my high school, joined the Youth Advisory Board for Songs of Saving (a non-profit supporting mental health through music), and performed regularly at senior homes and local coffee shops. I truly fell in love with it all. All of this is a long pre-amble to the fact that Mamma Mia has become the movie that has changed my life. Not only because it was one of my mom's favorite movies, but because it inspired me to persue music. In fact, a verse from a song I wrote called "Mom’s Song" sums up my story: "Mama thank you for the music. You’re my Meryl Streep. In my world that fell apart, I found a dream to help me sleep." Early on, I learned that life is incredibly unexpected. When life hands you the worst, it can also hand you the best. But most importantly, life is what you make it. I discovered the powerful impact music has on mental health, and it has become my mission to help others through my music.

It’s often said that the best art comes from a true place of darkness. My journey as an artist began during what was by far the darkest time of my life. When I was 12 years old, my mom died very suddenly from a heart-attack and completely pulled the ground from beneath my feet. Plummeting into anxiety, I desperately needed somewhere to put these complicated feelings. That’s when music found me. The year before my mom’s death, my sister and I received ukuleles for Christmas. She began learning, but mine remained untouched, despite my dreams of playing an instrument. After my mom died, isolated during the pandemic, I decided to give it a shot. Starting with just goofing off and watching YouTube videos, playing the ukulele brought me the first bit of joy I'd felt in a long time. A few months later, I wrote my first original song—a silly Christmas jingle. I’ll never forget the look in my dad’s tear-filled eyes as he listened. Worried, I asked, "Did I do something wrong?" He shook his head, laughing, and assured me there was something special there. From that moment, I continued writing songs, unaware that music had become my greatest emotional outlet. Eventually, my siblings and I created an album titled "Glass Half Full" as a family pandemic project. My brother, aspiring to be a producer, mixed the album; my sister, studying art, designed the cover; and my dad fueled our efforts by setting up my website, my label (Radiate Positivity Records), and managing global distribution. Through this project, I realized my true dream: to create music that could heal my own wounds and those of others. Encouraged by this passion, I continued writing, recording, and performing live. One of my first performances was at a gala for Experience Camps, a non-profit supporting grieving children. This camp profoundly changed my life, helping me find the courage to share my music and story. Through connections at Experience Camps, I joined "A Song For You," a non-profit creating personalized songs for hospice patients and their families. My first project involved writing a song for twin eight-year-olds who lost their father—nothing felt more fulfilling than this full-circle moment. Inspired, I founded a songwriting club at my high school, joined the Youth Advisory Board for Songs of Saving (a non-profit supporting mental health through music), and performed regularly at senior homes and local coffee shops. I truly fell in love with it all. A verse from a song I wrote called "Mom’s Song" sums up my story: "Mama thank you for the music. You’re my Meryl Streep. In my world that fell apart, I found a dream to help me sleep." Early on, I learned that life is incredibly unexpected. When life hands you the worst, it can also hand you the best. But most importantly, life is what you make it. I discovered the powerful impact music has on mental health, and it has become my mission to help others through my music.

It’s often said that the best art comes from a true place of darkness. My journey as an artist began during what was by far the darkest time of my life. When I was 12 years old, my mom died very suddenly from a heart-attack and completely pulled the ground from beneath my feet. Plummeting into anxiety, I desperately needed somewhere to put these complicated feelings. That’s when music found me. The year before my mom’s death, my sister and I received ukuleles for Christmas. She began learning, but mine remained untouched, despite my dreams of playing an instrument. After my mom died, isolated during the pandemic, I decided to give it a shot. Starting with just goofing off and watching YouTube videos, playing the ukulele brought me the first bit of joy I'd felt in a long time. A few months later, I wrote my first original song—a silly Christmas jingle. I’ll never forget the look in my dad’s tear-filled eyes as he listened. Worried, I asked, "Did I do something wrong?" He shook his head, laughing, and assured me there was something special there. From that moment, I continued writing songs, unaware that music had become my greatest emotional outlet. Eventually, my siblings and I created an album titled "Glass Half Full" as a family pandemic project. My brother, aspiring to be a producer, mixed the album; my sister, studying art, designed the cover; and my dad fueled our efforts by setting up my website, my label (Radiate Positivity Records), and managing global distribution. Through this project, I realized my true dream: to create music that could heal my own wounds and those of others. Encouraged by this passion, I continued writing, recording, and performing live. One of my first performances was at a gala for Experience Camps, a non-profit supporting grieving children. This camp profoundly changed my life, helping me find the courage to share my music and story. Through connections at Experience Camps, I joined "A Song For You," a non-profit creating personalized songs for hospice patients and their families. My first project involved writing a song for twin eight-year-olds who lost their father—nothing felt more fulfilling than this full-circle moment. Inspired, I founded a songwriting club at my high school, joined the Youth Advisory Board for Songs of Saving (a non-profit supporting mental health through music), and performed regularly at senior homes and local coffee shops. I truly fell in love with it all. A verse from a song I wrote called "Mom’s Song" sums up my story: "Mama thank you for the music. You’re my Meryl Streep. In my world that fell apart, I found a dream to help me sleep." Early on, I learned that life is incredibly unexpected. When life hands you the worst, it can also hand you the best. But most importantly, life is what you make it. I discovered the powerful impact music has on mental health, and it has become my mission to help others through my music.

It’s often said that the best art comes from a true place of darkness. My journey as an artist began during what was by far the darkest time of my life. When I was 12 years old, my mom died very suddenly from a heart-attack and completely pulled the ground from beneath my feet. Plummeting into anxiety, I desperately needed somewhere to put these complicated feelings. That’s when music found me. The year before my mom’s death, my sister and I received ukuleles for Christmas. She began learning, but mine remained untouched, despite my dreams of playing an instrument. After my mom died, isolated during the pandemic, I decided to give it a shot. Starting with just goofing off and watching YouTube videos, playing the ukulele brought me the first bit of joy I'd felt in a long time. A few months later, I wrote my first original song—a silly Christmas jingle. I’ll never forget the look in my dad’s tear-filled eyes as he listened. Worried, I asked, "Did I do something wrong?" He shook his head, laughing, and assured me there was something special there. From that moment, I continued writing songs, unaware that music had become my greatest emotional outlet. Eventually, my siblings and I created an album titled "Glass Half Full" as a family pandemic project. My brother, aspiring to be a producer, mixed the album; my sister, studying art, designed the cover; and my dad fueled our efforts by setting up my website, my label (Radiate Positivity Records), and managing global distribution. Through this project, I realized my true dream: to create music that could heal my own wounds and those of others. Encouraged by this passion, I continued writing, recording, and performing live. One of my first performances was at a gala for Experience Camps, a non-profit supporting grieving children. This camp profoundly changed my life, helping me find the courage to share my music and story. Through connections at Experience Camps, I joined "A Song For You," a non-profit creating personalized songs for hospice patients and their families. My first project involved writing a song for twin eight-year-olds who lost their father—nothing felt more fulfilling than this full-circle moment. Inspired, I founded a songwriting club at my high school, joined the Youth Advisory Board for Songs of Saving (a non-profit supporting mental health through music), and performed regularly at senior homes and local coffee shops. I truly fell in love with it all. A verse from a song I wrote called "Mom’s Song" sums up my story: "Mama thank you for the music. You’re my Meryl Streep. In my world that fell apart, I found a dream to help me sleep." Early on, I learned that life is incredibly unexpected. When life hands you the worst, it can also hand you the best. But most importantly, life is what you make it. I discovered the powerful impact music has on mental health, and it has become my mission to help others through my music.

In 1895, my family arrived in America from Bagheria, Sicily, and like many Italians coming through Ellis Island, they settled in Nolita, Manhattan. My great-great-grandfather, Gioacchino, opened G. La Rosa & Son Bread Co. on Elizabeth Street, which became very successful. Though the business eventually closed, the ambition behind it was passed down through generations. Both of my parents are of Italian descent, but I lost my mother when I was only 12, and I never got to learn about her side of the family. Losing her at such a young age had a profound effect on me, leading to anxiety and a need for an outlet for my complicated feelings. That’s when music came into my life. What started as a distraction soon became my greatest outlet. Inspired by my roots and my distant cousin, Julius LaRosa, a famous Italian-American singer, I fully committed to my dream. Since the age of 12, I’ve released 25 songs, won songwriting contests, performed at iconic NYC venues like 54 Below and The Bitter End, and even got into my dream school, Berklee College of Music. My Italian heritage represents a lineage of risk-takers, and I use their courage to fuel my own ambitions every day. Encouraged by this passion, I continued writing, recording, and performing live. One of my first performances was at a gala for Experience Camps, a non-profit supporting grieving children. This camp profoundly changed my life, helping me find the courage to share my music and story. Through connections at Experience Camps, I joined "A Song For You," a non-profit creating personalized songs for hospice patients and their families. My first project involved writing a song for twin eight-year-olds who lost their father—nothing felt more fulfilling than this full-circle moment. Inspired, I founded a songwriting club at my high school, joined the Youth Advisory Board for Songs of Saving (a non-profit supporting mental health through music), and performed regularly at senior homes and local coffee shops. I truly fell in love with it all. A verse from a song I wrote called "Mom’s Song" sums up my story: "Mama thank you for the music. You’re my Meryl Streep. In my world that fell apart, I found a dream to help me sleep." Early on, I learned that life is incredibly unexpected. When life hands you the worst, it can also hand you the best. But most importantly, life is what you make it. I discovered the powerful impact music has on mental health, and it has become my mission to help others through my music.

It’s often said that the best art comes from a true place of darkness. My journey as an artist began during what was by far the darkest time of my life. When I was 12 years old, my mom died very suddenly from a heart-attack and completely pulled the ground from beneath my feet. Plummeting into anxiety, I desperately needed somewhere to put these complicated feelings. That’s when music found me. The year before my mom’s death, my sister and I received ukuleles for Christmas. She began learning, but mine remained untouched, despite my dreams of playing an instrument. After my mom died, isolated during the pandemic, I decided to give it a shot. Starting with just goofing off and watching YouTube videos, playing the ukulele brought me the first bit of joy I'd felt in a long time. A few months later, I wrote my first original song—a silly Christmas jingle. I’ll never forget the look in my dad’s tear-filled eyes as he listened. Worried, I asked, "Did I do something wrong?" He shook his head, laughing, and assured me there was something special there. From that moment, I continued writing songs, unaware that music had become my greatest emotional outlet. Eventually, my siblings and I created an album titled "Glass Half Full" as a family pandemic project. My brother, aspiring to be a producer, mixed the album; my sister, studying art, designed the cover; and my dad fueled our efforts by setting up my website, my label (Radiate Positivity Records), and managing global distribution. Through this project, I realized my true dream: to create music that could heal my own wounds and those of others. Encouraged by this passion, I continued writing, recording, and performing live. One of my first performances was at a gala for Experience Camps, a non-profit supporting grieving children. This camp profoundly changed my life, helping me find the courage to share my music and story. Through connections at Experience Camps, I joined "A Song For You," a non-profit creating personalized songs for hospice patients and their families. My first project involved writing a song for twin eight-year-olds who lost their father—nothing felt more fulfilling than this full-circle moment. Inspired, I founded a songwriting club at my high school, joined the Youth Advisory Board for Songs of Saving (a non-profit supporting mental health through music), and performed regularly at senior homes and local coffee shops. I truly fell in love with it all. A verse from a song I wrote called "Mom’s Song" sums up my story: "Mama thank you for the music. You’re my Meryl Streep. In my world that fell apart, I found a dream to help me sleep." Early on, I learned that life is incredibly unexpected. When life hands you the worst, it can also hand you the best. But most importantly, life is what you make it. I discovered the powerful impact music has on mental health, and it has become my mission to help others through my music. My music is streamable everywhere with links to it here: www.tinalarosa.com/music

My childhood was eventful to say the least. For the first 11 years of my life, I truly believed everything was perfect. One day everything changed. My mom told us she was leaving. I was in shock. I was suddenly bombarded with all this information of what had been going on behind the scenes. My mother had a mental illness. Bipolar Disorder. She was mostly unmedicated and her strange behaviors became clearer to me. Her decision to abandon her husband and children was a lot for an 11 year old to take in and understand. This event triggered my own battle with mental illness. I had my first sparks of anxiety which quickly devolved into constant full blown panic attacks. I’ll never forget my first panic attack. The fear behind tear filled eyes, the fight for breath and the genuine belief that the worst was true. When I finally started to wrap my head around this, only one year after she left, my mom died. As if those two traumas weren’t enough, soon after was COVID. My anxiety was at an all time high as I learned over and over how unexpected life could be. I was suddenly stuck inside, face to face with my racing mind. Panic attacks, feelings of being detached from reality, and a mass of negative thoughts were my everyday life. When anyone dies there is so much left unsaid. In my mom’s case, her own mental illness was wrapped up into this last part of her life and I never truly got, nor never will get, the chance to resolve that with her. My world was shattered and I could not see a way out. Luckily, I did find a way out through therapy and music. I found a therapist who helped me calm my anxiety and think about my grief logically. She helped me start to recognize my triggers and gave me tools to cope and calm myself such as breathing techniques and affirmations. My therapist encouraged me to use my time at home wisely to process. That’s when music found me. I picked up a ukulele that I had received as a gift. I started to teach myself how to play. Then I started to write. I wrote songs called “Glass Half Full” and “Box Breathing” where the lyrics were my inner voice (or perhaps my mom) telling me that everything was going to be okay. In this I was reminding myself that I had the power to heal myself. Putting these words down on paper, and then formulating them into a song was amazing therapy that calmed me down. Music has become my greatest emotional outlet. Through writing and publishing this music, I realized my dream: to create music that can heal. One of my first performances was at a gala for ExCamps, a non-profit supporting grieving children. I also joined "A-Song-For-You," a non-profit creating personalized songs for hospice patients. A verse from my song "Mom’s Song" sums up my story: "Mama thank you for the music. You’re my Meryl Streep. In my world that fell apart, I found a dream to help me sleep." Early on, I learned that life is incredibly unexpected and mental health issues make everything more difficult. When life hands you the worst, it can also hand you the best. But most importantly, life is what you make it. I discovered the powerful impact music has on mental health. Continuing to write is how I continue to handle my own anxiety, and it has become my mission to help others through my music.

It’s often said that the best art comes from a true place of darkness. My journey as an artist began during what was by far the darkest time of my life. When I was 12 years old, my mom died very suddenly from a heart-attack and completely pulled the ground from beneath my feet. Plummeting into anxiety, I desperately needed somewhere to put these complicated feelings. That’s when music found me. The year before my mom’s death, my sister and I received ukuleles for Christmas. She began learning, but mine remained untouched, despite my dreams of playing an instrument. After my mom died, isolated during the pandemic, I decided to give it a shot. Starting with just goofing off and watching YouTube videos, playing the ukulele brought me the first bit of joy I'd felt in a long time. A few months later, I wrote my first original song—a silly Christmas jingle. I’ll never forget the look in my dad’s tear-filled eyes as he listened. Worried, I asked, "Did I do something wrong?" He shook his head, laughing, and assured me there was something special there. From that moment, I continued writing songs, unaware that music had become my greatest emotional outlet. Eventually, my siblings and I created an album titled "Glass Half Full" as a family pandemic project. My brother, aspiring to be a producer, mixed the album; my sister, studying art, designed the cover; and my dad fueled our efforts by setting up my website, my label (Radiate Positivity Records), and managing global distribution. Through this project, I realized my true dream: to create music that could heal my own wounds and those of others. Encouraged by this passion, I continued writing, recording, and performing live. One of my first performances was at a gala for Experience Camps, a non-profit supporting grieving children. This camp profoundly changed my life, helping me find the courage to share my music and story. Through connections at Experience Camps, I joined "A Song For You," a non-profit creating personalized songs for hospice patients and their families. My first project involved writing a song for twin eight-year-olds who lost their father—nothing felt more fulfilling than this full-circle moment. Inspired, I founded a songwriting club at my high school, joined the Youth Advisory Board for Songs of Saving (a non-profit supporting mental health through music), and performed regularly at senior homes and local coffee shops. I truly fell in love with it all. A verse from a song I wrote called "Mom’s Song" sums up my story: "Mama thank you for the music. You’re my Meryl Streep. In my world that fell apart, I found a dream to help me sleep." Early on, I learned that life is incredibly unexpected. When life hands you the worst, it can also hand you the best. But most importantly, life is what you make it. I discovered the powerful impact music has on mental health, and it has become my mission to help others through my music.

It’s often said that the best art comes from a true place of darkness. My journey as an artist began during what was by far the darkest time of my life. When I was 12 years old, my mom died very suddenly from a heart-attack and completely pulled the ground from beneath my feet. Plummeting into anxiety, I desperately needed somewhere to put these complicated feelings. That’s when music found me. The year before my mom’s death, my sister and I received ukuleles for Christmas. She began learning, but mine remained untouched, despite my dreams of playing an instrument. After my mom died, isolated during the pandemic, I decided to give it a shot. Starting with just goofing off and watching YouTube videos, playing the ukulele brought me the first bit of joy I'd felt in a long time. A few months later, I wrote my first original song—a silly Christmas jingle. I’ll never forget the look in my dad’s tear-filled eyes as he listened. Worried, I asked, "Did I do something wrong?" He shook his head, laughing, and assured me there was something special there. From that moment, I continued writing songs, unaware that music had become my greatest emotional outlet. Eventually, my siblings and I created an album titled "Glass Half Full" as a family pandemic project. My brother, aspiring to be a producer, mixed the album; my sister, studying art, designed the cover; and my dad fueled our efforts by setting up my website, my label (Radiate Positivity Records), and managing global distribution. Through this project, I realized my true dream: to create music that could heal my own wounds and those of others. Encouraged by this passion, I continued writing, recording, and performing live. One of my first performances was at a gala for Experience Camps, a non-profit supporting grieving children. This camp profoundly changed my life, helping me find the courage to share my music and story. Through connections at Experience Camps, I joined "A Song For You," a non-profit creating personalized songs for hospice patients and their families. My first project involved writing a song for twin eight-year-olds who lost their father—nothing felt more fulfilling than this full-circle moment. Inspired, I founded a songwriting club at my high school, joined the Youth Advisory Board for Songs of Saving (a non-profit supporting mental health through music), and performed regularly at senior homes and local coffee shops. I truly fell in love with it all. At this same time, I realized that I was gay. Trying to navigate my sexuality in a conservative town was confusing. My dad luckily never made me feel bad, but subconsciously- the world did. I didn’t like to make a big deal out of it but I would tell people if they asked. I do believe that since my dad supported me and I had spent so much time in therapy, this aspect of my life was luckily not bad unlike how it is for so many. A verse from a song I wrote called "Mom’s Song" sums up my story: "Mama thank you for the music. You’re my Meryl Streep. In my world that fell apart, I found a dream to help me sleep." Early on, I learned that life is incredibly unexpected. When life hands you the worst, it can also hand you the best. But most importantly, life is what you make it. I discovered the powerful impact music has on mental health, and it has become my mission to help others through my music.

It’s often said that the best art comes from a true place of darkness. My journey as an artist began during what was by far the darkest time of my life. When I was 12 years old, my mom died very suddenly from a heart-attack and completely pulled the ground from beneath my feet. Plummeting into anxiety, I desperately needed somewhere to put these complicated feelings. That’s when music found me. The year before my mom’s death, my sister and I received ukuleles for Christmas. She began learning, but mine remained untouched, despite my dreams of playing an instrument. After my mom died, isolated during the pandemic, I decided to give it a shot. Starting with just goofing off and watching YouTube videos, playing the ukulele brought me the first bit of joy I'd felt in a long time. A few months later, I wrote my first original song—a silly Christmas jingle. I’ll never forget the look in my dad’s tear-filled eyes as he listened. Worried, I asked, "Did I do something wrong?" He shook his head, laughing, and assured me there was something special there. From that moment, I continued writing songs, unaware that music had become my greatest emotional outlet. Eventually, my siblings and I created an album titled "Glass Half Full" as a family pandemic project. My brother, aspiring to be a producer, mixed the album; my sister, studying art, designed the cover; and my dad fueled our efforts by setting up my website, my label (Radiate Positivity Records), and managing global distribution. Through this project, I realized my true dream: to create music that could heal my own wounds and those of others. Encouraged by this passion, I continued writing, recording, and performing live. One of my first performances was at a gala for Experience Camps, a non-profit supporting grieving children. This camp profoundly changed my life, helping me find the courage to share my music and story. Through connections at Experience Camps, I joined "A Song For You," a non-profit creating personalized songs for hospice patients and their families. My first project involved writing a song for twin eight-year-olds who lost their father—nothing felt more fulfilling than this full-circle moment. Inspired, I founded a songwriting club at my high school, joined the Youth Advisory Board for Songs of Saving (a non-profit supporting mental health through music), and performed regularly at senior homes and local coffee shops. I truly fell in love with it all. A verse from a song I wrote called "Mom’s Song" sums up my story: "Mama thank you for the music. You’re my Meryl Streep. In my world that fell apart, I found a dream to help me sleep." Early on, I learned that life is incredibly unexpected. When life hands you the worst, it can also hand you the best. But most importantly, life is what you make it. I discovered the powerful impact music has on mental health, and it has become my mission to help others through my music.

It’s often said that the best art comes from a true place of darkness. My journey as an artist began during what was by far the darkest time of my life. When I was 12 years old, my mom died very suddenly from a heart-attack and completely pulled the ground from beneath my feet. Plummeting into anxiety, I desperately needed somewhere to put these complicated feelings. That’s when music found me. The year before my mom’s death, my sister and I received ukuleles for Christmas. She began learning, but mine remained untouched, despite my dreams of playing an instrument. After my mom died, isolated during the pandemic, I decided to give it a shot. Starting with just goofing off and watching YouTube videos, playing the ukulele brought me the first bit of joy I'd felt in a long time. A few months later, I wrote my first original song—a silly Christmas jingle. I’ll never forget the look in my dad’s tear-filled eyes as he listened. Worried, I asked, "Did I do something wrong?" He shook his head, laughing, and assured me there was something special there. From that moment, I continued writing songs, unaware that music had become my greatest emotional outlet. Eventually, my siblings and I created an album titled "Glass Half Full" as a family pandemic project. My brother, aspiring to be a producer, mixed the album; my sister, studying art, designed the cover; and my dad fueled our efforts by setting up my website, my label (Radiate Positivity Records), and managing global distribution. Through this project, I realized my true dream: to create music that could heal my own wounds and those of others. Encouraged by this passion, I continued writing, recording, and performing live. One of my first performances was at a gala for Experience Camps, a non-profit supporting grieving children. This camp profoundly changed my life, helping me find the courage to share my music and story. Through connections at Experience Camps, I joined "A Song For You," a non-profit creating personalized songs for hospice patients and their families. My first project involved writing a song for twin eight-year-olds who lost their father—nothing felt more fulfilling than this full-circle moment. Inspired, I founded a songwriting club at my high school, joined the Youth Advisory Board for Songs of Saving (a non-profit supporting mental health through music), and performed regularly at senior homes and local coffee shops. I truly fell in love with it all. A verse from a song I wrote called "Mom’s Song" sums up my story: "Mama thank you for the music. You’re my Meryl Streep. In my world that fell apart, I found a dream to help me sleep." Early on, I learned that life is incredibly unexpected. When life hands you the worst, it can also hand you the best. But most importantly, life is what you make it. I discovered the powerful impact music has on mental health, and it has become my mission to help others through my music. Because my father is the sole-earner in our household and has been struggling with work since my mom's death needing to take care of his three children, paying for life has been tough - say nothing of paying for college. Being able to ease his burden is everything to me.

It’s often said that the best art comes from a true place of darkness. My journey as an artist began during what was by far the darkest time of my life. When I was 12 years old, my mom died very suddenly from a heart-attack and completely pulled the ground from beneath my feet. Plummeting into anxiety, I desperately needed somewhere to put these complicated feelings. That’s when music found me. The year before my mom’s death, my sister and I received ukuleles for Christmas. She began learning, but mine remained untouched, despite my dreams of playing an instrument. After my mom died, isolated during the pandemic, I decided to give it a shot. Starting with just goofing off and watching YouTube videos, playing the ukulele brought me the first bit of joy I'd felt in a long time. A few months later, I wrote my first original song—a silly Christmas jingle. I’ll never forget the look in my dad’s tear-filled eyes as he listened. Worried, I asked, "Did I do something wrong?" He shook his head, laughing, and assured me there was something special there. From that moment, I continued writing songs, unaware that music had become my greatest emotional outlet. Eventually, my siblings and I created an album titled "Glass Half Full" as a family pandemic project. My brother, aspiring to be a producer, mixed the album; my sister, studying art, designed the cover; and my dad fueled our efforts by setting up my website, my label (Radiate Positivity Records), and managing global distribution. Through this project, I realized my true dream: to create music that could heal my own wounds and those of others. Encouraged by this passion, I continued writing, recording, and performing live. One of my first performances was at a gala for Experience Camps, a non-profit supporting grieving children. This camp profoundly changed my life, helping me find the courage to share my music and story. Through connections at Experience Camps, I joined "A Song For You," a non-profit creating personalized songs for hospice patients and their families. My first project involved writing a song for twin eight-year-olds who lost their father—nothing felt more fulfilling than this full-circle moment. Inspired, I founded a songwriting club at my high school, joined the Youth Advisory Board for Songs of Saving (a non-profit supporting mental health through music), and performed regularly at senior homes and local coffee shops. I truly fell in love with it all. A verse from a song I wrote called "Mom’s Song" sums up my story: "Mama thank you for the music. You’re my Meryl Streep. In my world that fell apart, I found a dream to help me sleep." Early on, I learned that life is incredibly unexpected. When life hands you the worst, it can also hand you the best. But most importantly, life is what you make it. I discovered the powerful impact music has on mental health, and it has become my mission to help others through my music.

It’s often said that the best art comes from a true place of darkness. My journey as an artist began during what was by far the darkest time of my life. When I was 12 years old, my mom died very suddenly from a heart-attack and completely pulled the ground from beneath my feet. Plummeting into anxiety, I desperately needed somewhere to put these complicated feelings. That’s when music found me. The year before my mom’s death, I received a ukulele for Christmas. It remained untouched, despite my dreams of playing an instrument. After my mom died, isolated during the pandemic, I decided to give it a shot. Starting with just goofing off and watching YouTube videos, playing ukulele brought me the first joy I'd felt in a long time. A few months later, I wrote my first original song—a silly Christmas jingle. I’ll never forget the look in my dad’s tear-filled eyes as he listened. Worried, I asked, "Did I do something wrong?" He shook his head, laughing, and assured me there was something special there. From that moment, I continued writing songs, unaware that music had become my greatest emotional outlet. Encouraged by this passion, I continued writing, publishing music on Spotify, recording, and performing live. One of my first performances was at a gala for ExCamps, a non-profit supporting grieving children. This camp changed my life, helping me find courage to share my music. Through connections at Experience Camps, I joined "A-Song-For-You," a non-profit creating songs for hospice patients. My first project involved writing a song for twin eight-year-olds who lost their father—nothing felt more fulfilling than this full-circle moment. Inspired, I founded a songwriting club, joined the Youth Advisory Board for Songs of Saving, and performed regularly at senior homes and local coffee shops. I truly fell in love with it all. A verse from a song I wrote called "Mom’s Song" sums up my story: "Mama thank you for the music. You’re my Meryl Streep. In my world that fell apart, I found a dream to help me sleep." Early on, I learned that life is incredibly unexpected. When life hands you the worst, it can also hand you the best. But most importantly, life is what you make it. I discovered the powerful impact music has on mental health, and it has become my mission to help others through my music.

It’s often said that the best art comes from a true place of darkness. My journey as an artist began during what was by far the darkest time of my life. When I was 12 years old, my mom died very suddenly from a heart-attack and completely pulled the ground from beneath my feet. Plummeting into anxiety, I desperately needed somewhere to put these complicated feelings. That’s when music found me. The year before my mom’s death, my sister and I received ukuleles for Christmas. She began learning, but mine remained untouched, despite my dreams of playing an instrument. After my mom died, isolated during the pandemic, I decided to give it a shot. Starting with just goofing off and watching YouTube videos, playing the ukulele brought me the first bit of joy I'd felt in a long time. A few months later, I wrote my first original song—a silly Christmas jingle. I’ll never forget the look in my dad’s tear-filled eyes as he listened. Worried, I asked, "Did I do something wrong?" He shook his head, laughing, and assured me there was something special there. From that moment, I continued writing songs, unaware that music had become my greatest emotional outlet. Eventually, my siblings and I created an album titled "Glass Half Full" as a family pandemic project. My brother, aspiring to be a producer, mixed the album; my sister, studying art, designed the cover; and my dad fueled our efforts by setting up my website, my label (Radiate Positivity Records), and managing global distribution. Through this project, I realized my true dream: to create music that could heal my own wounds and those of others. Encouraged by this passion, I continued writing, recording, and performing live. One of my first performances was at a gala for Experience Camps, a non-profit supporting grieving children. This camp profoundly changed my life, helping me find the courage to share my music and story. Through connections at Experience Camps, I joined "A Song For You," a non-profit creating personalized songs for hospice patients and their families. My first project involved writing a song for twin eight-year-olds who lost their father—nothing felt more fulfilling than this full-circle moment. Inspired, I founded a songwriting club at my high school, joined the Youth Advisory Board for Songs of Saving (a non-profit supporting mental health through music), and performed regularly at senior homes and local coffee shops. I truly fell in love with it all. A verse from a song I wrote called "Mom’s Song" sums up my story: "Mama thank you for the music. You’re my Meryl Streep. In my world that fell apart, I found a dream to help me sleep." Early on, I learned that life is incredibly unexpected. When life hands you the worst, it can also hand you the best. But most importantly, life is what you make it. I discovered the powerful impact music has on mental health, and it has become my mission to help others through my music.