I'm someone who thinks in rhythm and melody. Music isn't just in my ears; it's the soundtrack to my thoughts. I'm also obsessed with languages—I love how each one feels like a different key on a piano, unlocking new ways to express the same human emotions. And when the music and the feeling get too big to contain, I dance. It's how my body speaks. Oh, and my friends say I have a superpower: I'm a human playlist. I can almost always find the perfect song that explains exactly what you're feeling.

You know how some people have a morning coffee? I have a morning vocal run. Singing for me isn't just a hobby; it's my most honest form of conversation. It’s where my love for language and music crash together in the most powerful way—using my own voice as the instrument. I’m drawn to artists who aren’t afraid to use their voice as a raw, emotional blueprint. My absolute north star is Christina Aguilera. She’s my masterclass in vocal athleticism and fearless reinvention. Studying her is like a workout for my soul—the power, the control, the sheer drama she can convey from a whisper to a belt. She taught me that technique is nothing without emotion. But then there’s the devastating, story-driven power of someone like Cynthia Erivo. Her singing isn't just about perfect notes; it's about embodying a character, about making you feel every syllable of a story. She inspires me to think of my voice as an actor’s tool, to find the narrative in every line I sing.

I'm drawn to the raw dysfunction of "Shameless" and the heightened romance of "The Vampire Diaries." They seem opposite, but both explore a core truth with serious depth: the fierce, flawed lengths we go for family and survival. "Shameless" shows love as a gritty, actionable verb in the face of concrete monsters like poverty. Its power is in its unvarnished authenticity. "The Vampire Diaries" externalizes emotion, making grief, passion, and obsession into literal supernatural forces. Its power is its operatic scale of feeling. Together, they complete a picture for me. One is the gritty, practical truth of resilience—a shout in a dirty alley. The other is the poetic, eternal drama of the heart—a whisper in a moonlit forest. I need both to understand the full spectrum of how we fight to love and live.

My future isn't a straight line—it's a rhythm, a call and response between all the things I love. I see myself building a life where nothing is separate; where my music, my languages, and my movement are in constant conversation. I’m working towards creating a space, maybe physical, maybe digital, that feels like the inside of my mind. A hub or a series of projects I call “The Translated Feeling.” Imagine immersive workshops where we don't just learn a dance from a culture, but we learn the language of its lyrics, the history in its rhythms. We'd move to Portuguese fado, understand its melancholy, then write our own verse. We'd unpack the defiance in Afrobeat, the storytelling in Balkan folk, and find our own body's translation.

What absolutely drives me up the wall? That whole "princess treatment" trend, but not for the reasons you might think. It's not about the idea of care—it's about the performance of it. When it feels less like genuine admiration and more like a man following a viral script, treating a woman like a delicate figurine on a pedestal... it makes my soul cringe. To me, it sounds like a bad pop song. All saccharine strings and predictable chord progressions, with no grit, no interesting key change, no raw ad-libs. It's melody without meaning. And this is where my love for Asian culture reframes it all. I think of the profound subtlety in a Japanese tea ceremony, the disciplined artistry of K-drama storytelling, or the fierce, balanced strength of satisfaction. That’s real depth. That’s quiet devotion and immense respect built on action, not just aesthetics. Treating someone like a "princess" feels superficial; treating them with the respect of a fellow warrior, artist, or scholar.