On May 5, Ghosts of Me is released — an album built from memories I carried for decades but never planned to turn into songs.
The first piece of writing that belongs to this record was “Ten Years of Lies.” For years it existed only as words on paper. It was never meant to be music. It was a private document of something difficult, personal, and unresolved. Only now has it been reshaped into a song — not exactly as it was written, but close enough to keep the truth intact.
These are the heaviest songs I’ve ever worked on. Not because of complex arrangements, but because of what they contain. Most of them trace back to my teenage years and early adulthood: feeling invisible, walking home through cold nights, trying to belong, staying quiet to avoid conflict, carrying shame that wasn’t mine, and finding small islands of safety in people who didn’t even know how much they mattered.
“Before I Had Words” opens the album in childhood — a quiet kid who felt too much and couldn’t explain any of it, and a grandmother who became a refuge without ever trying to be one.
“The Missing Strings” moves into the unrealized dream of music itself — holding a guitar with no strings, wanting to learn but never getting the help to start, and growing up believing you’re “not musical” while melodies still live inside you.
“Thirteen and Gone,” “Losing Streak,” and “We Who Walked Home” capture the teenage years: alcohol, long walks after the last bus, loud friends, quiet shame, nights that felt alive and empty at the same time.
“Quiet Doesn’t Save Me” and “Wrong Side of the Frame” step into adulthood — the realization that staying calm, kind, and silent doesn’t protect you from being misunderstood or blamed.
“Whispers of the Past” looks back at friendship and the strange bond between opposites that only makes sense when you’re young.
Then comes “Ten Years of Lies,” the emotional breaking point of the album.
Finally, the title track “Ghosts of Me” ties everything together — not as a conclusion, but as recognition. The child, the teenager, the quiet adult, the betrayed partner, the boy with the guitar without strings — they are all still here.
You could call this a therapy album. Not because it tries to heal anything, but because it refuses to hide what shaped me — for better and for worse.
Ghosts of Me is not a concept album. It’s a life, in songs.
Releasing May 5.
