After school, I used to type lyrics into Notepad on my old family computer and record them with what was probably the world's worst microphone. I've been writing songs for as long as I can remember. Even before I started songwriting in a more formal sense, it was something that brought me immense joy.

It's probably for the best that those early songs are long gone, but the joy of creating music has been one of my life's greatest constants. As I grew older, my songwriting became more personal, evolving into a vehicle to give shape to big feelings like grief, joy, fear, and wonder.

For a long time, my music was something I did just for myself. It never felt like "real" music. As a teenager, I would occasionally share a song on SoundCloud or Tumblr but, as I grew older, I began to doubt that my music had much value beyond the joy I found in creating it.

In a moment of out-of-character gumption, I submitted my song “Bright” to the Gay Men’s Chorus of Washington, DC's soloist cabaret in late summer 2023. My life had felt like it was falling apart in many ways, and I found myself writing more music than ever. The audition notice asked us to select a song we could relate to a photo from our lives. So, I found a photo of me as a kid, dressed for church and smiling ear-to-ear. I told a story about growing up in Catholic school as a queer person, and how confusing it was to internalize lessons of unconditional love and kindness, only for many of the people who taught me those lessons to be the first to judge, sneer, or turn away when I eventually came out.

I was one of twelve soloists chosen and I was asked to play an additional song when we took the show to other cities and venues. In the span of a couple of months, I went from rarely playing my music outside my bedroom to taking two of my songs on tour. It felt surreal. It felt empowering. And it felt good.

After the first cabaret performance, I was talking to the artistic director, Dr. Thea Kano. She asked me how long I’d been writing. I told her about my running spreadsheet of countless songs and shared that, as a teenager, I used to joke about wanting to record an album before I turned 30. I mentioned how I'd long given up on that dream, but that taking my songs on tour was special because it showed me how much my music could resonate with other people. Total strangers were coming up to me and sharing the ways in which they connected to my story, and these songs that I had written. To know that even one person could feel seen and understood through my songwriting was mind-blowing. Suddenly, my reflex to keep my music to myself seemed so clearly rooted in a very human fear of rejection, rather than a lack of desire. 

Thea smiled at me, a glint of determination in her eyes, and asked, “Are you 30 yet?”

I was a couple of weeks shy of 29. “So,” she said, “we’ve got a year to make this happen.”

And that's how this project began. Surrounded by a community of some of the most talented musicians I’ve ever met, I found the push I needed to chase a lifelong dream I had thought it more sensible to abandon. Even more meaningful, my chosen family has met this project with such immense enthusiasm, support, and love. It has been my greatest joy to share this project with them, to weave the voices of their support and love into these songs.

My debut album, Lemonboy, is a collection of music I wrote in moments when my feelings felt so big that I just had to get them out of my body, to give them shape. Without the support of my beloved community, I know I would have given up on this project a hundred times over. Some of this music is older, most of it is new, and all of it was written because I needed to write it: because it mattered to me; because it felt good; because this is the part of myself I feel I understand the most. At the same time, though, I know that I wouldn’t have made it this far without my chosen family cheering me on at every step - whether it was forwards or backwards.

This album is for them.