When I was younger, words didn’t carry much weight for me. They were just… words—something you used to talk, to get your point across, and move on. That all changed one day in eighth grade when my teacher read The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe aloud. The way he leaned into the rhythm, especially that echoing “nevermore,” hit something inside me. For the first time, I felt how a single word, spoken with intent, could stir something deep—how it could linger in the air long after it was said.
Another moment that stayed with me came when I first heard Nancy Wilson sing How Glad I Am. The way she delivered those lines—You don’t know… you don’t know… you don’t know… how glad I am—it wasn’t just a song anymore. It was emotion, truth, and soul wrapped inside melody. I felt every word.
Those kinds of experiences changed me. They made me curious. I started paying attention to words I didn’t know, noticing how meanings could shift depending on where you found them—in a book, a lyric, or a conversation. I began to see how tone, timing, and delivery could turn ordinary language into something that truly connects.
Over time, that curiosity grew into a deeper passion. I didn’t just want to use words to talk, I wanted to say something. To give my thoughts and feelings shape. To write in a way that carried weight, rhythm, and emotion—the same way those words once found me.
