There’s a strange kind of memory that sticks—not because it’s loud, or dramatic, or life-changing in an obvious way, but because it’s quietly grounding. Before I Had Words is my attempt to capture those memories, the moments before language could hold the weight of what I felt.
The song starts with soft, tentative rhythms—a lone drum, a gentle acoustic guitar—and carries that fragile intimacy throughout. It’s about being a child who quietly navigates the world, observing, feeling deeply, but often unable to speak up.
The verses trace my early life: the subtle isolation, the small joys, the lessons learned in silence. My parents did their best, and their love was there, but sometimes love alone isn’t enough to bridge the quiet spaces inside a child. I often retreated into tiny worlds of imagination, building little scenes that no one else could see.
Then there’s her—my grandmother. Her warmth, patience, and quiet understanding gave me a space to exist fully, to breathe. She held me in her presence and let me be small without judgment. The chorus, soft strings and harmonies rising, celebrates that shelter she provided: love that needed no words, love that healed and guided.
Writing this song was a way to honor that quiet influence in my life. It’s nostalgic, intimate, and raw—not in the screaming or chaos of rock, but in the subtle truths that shaped me. Even now, as an adult, her voice still whispers through the grey moments, reminding me of calm, of home, and of the gentle power of being truly seen.
Before I Had Words is a tribute to silent understanding, to the small hands that guide us when the world feels too loud, and to the memories that quietly shape who we become.