A place where music deepens your connection with yourself and others.
It's a space built to make life worth living.
Music has been there when nothing else was. It felt like a hug when I had no one to turn to. It shook off demons, opened my mind to a world beyond my own bubble, and gave me words for feelings I could never quite capture on my own.
The Listening Room exists because music did that for me, and I believe it can do that for someone else too.
My mission is to use what I'm good at — connection, compassion, discernment — to entertain, teach, and advise music lovers who want to live more intentionally while strengthening their relationships.
I want to be the guide who:
Helps you radiate your own aura at full volume
Encourages you to chase your curiosity instead of talking yourself out of it
Inspires you to trust your own intuition
Helps you develop your own taste & zest for life
Shows you a ton of good music
If I can help even one person use music to connect — to themselves, to someone else, to a reason to keep going — that makes all of this worth it.
There's so much beautiful music waiting for us in this life.
I want to help people find it before they give up looking.
Who is The Listening Room For?
This is for the people whose relationships feel thinner than they want them to be. That's with a partner, a friend, or yourself.
If you've ever felt closer to someone the second they shared a song with you, unprompted, because they thought of you specifically — you already know the thing I'm trying to build a whole room around.
You might even be the friend who's obsessed with music but feels like you have no one to share it with.
I'm not selling music discovery.
I'm building a bridge back to the kind of connection an algorithm, or AI can't fake.
One that says your taste in music, in art, in whatever you love — that's what bonds us together, and sharing it is the most beautiful part of our experience on earth.
Who Am I To Say Any of This? Here's what I know.
When I was little, I wanted to be a Backstreet Boy. Dead ass.
I was the kid in the backseat singing at the top of my lungs, no shame, no problems — just music and the particular kind of joy that comes from not yet knowing you're supposed to be embarrassed about it.
Music was the constant underneath everything else. Creed, Eminem, and Usher riding shotgun with my dad. Neil Diamond, Shania Twain, and Michael Jackson with my mom.
At church, I watched worship do something I didn't have words for yet — a room full of people creating one feeling together, on purpose.
Musical theater taught me that expression through music hits deeper than words alone ever could.
And raving is where I found PLUR — peace, love, unity, respect — and a community that made me feel like I belonged somewhere for the first time.
I still show up for up-and-coming artists playing basement shows, because underneath all of it,
I've just always been a fan.
Where it Got Hard.
Then came the part where I was supposed to "make something" of all that.
I got my degree in acting, and self-doubt ate me alive. I took a tech sales job and hated every second of cold calling. Got laid off. Built a copywriting business out of necessity — wrote for theaters, business coaches, an RV company. Nothing felt right, but I kept doing the "right" next thing anyway.
There were points, in there, where I didn't want to be alive on this earth. I'm not going to dress that up as anything other than what it was.
Music kept finding me anyway — a song would land at exactly the wrong right moment, and something in me would loosen just enough to keep going one more day.
Not because it fixed anything. Because it proved something in me was still alive enough to feel it.
Eventually I pivoted to what I actually knew in my bones: helping music artists connect deeper with their fans. Email marketing, fan club strategy — real relationships instead of chasing an algorithm.
That work still lives at Artists2Freedom — if you're an artist looking for the same thing, that's the door.
I spent a full year doing everything the "correct" way to sign clients — outreach, positioning, strategy — and it felt like going through the motions of building a business instead of actually living one.
The Question That Changed Everything
How do you know that all the things you love doing isn't what gets you all the success you've ever dreamed of?
I'd been stuck in my own algorithmic trap — same rhythms, same moves, the dopamine wearing off a little more each time.
But when my best friend sends me a song and it makes me smile? That song means more.
When someone builds a playlist for me instead of letting Spotify decide? Meaning rushes back in.
Human discovery beats an algorithm every single time.
I didn't need a study to tell me that; I'd felt it my whole life.
I'd just been waiting for permission to build around the thing I already loved instead of the thing that looked correct on paper.
And I know it's not just me it works on — the songs I've shared with friends come back around. They'll text me a track months later, saying it's stuck with them, or it got them through something.
That's the proof I actually trust.
Not that music saved me once. That it still works, passed from person to person, the same way it was passed to me.
So I stopped waiting.
I'm not writing this from some finished mountaintop.
I'm still pulling bartending shifts some nights, still building Artists2Freedom client by client, still figuring out The Listening Room in real time instead of from a fully drawn map.
The moral of this story isn't...
"and then everything clicked."
It's that I decided to trust myself and just start — mess and all, before I had any proof it would work.
If you're waiting on your own version of that permission, this might be it..
Where I am Now.
Ok, this is who you're really signing up for...
I'm a Cancer sun, Aries moon, Pisces rising — and if you know that language, you already know that's a strange, specific magic. Cancer means I feel everything and build a home out of the feeling. Aries means I act on it before I overthink it. Pisces rising means I walk into a room already a little bit dissolved into whatever's happening in it.
I'm a Generator in Human Design — built to be a natural doer, magnetic enough that the right things find their way to me instead of me chasing them down. I trust my gut in the moment, and I feel most myself when what I'm doing is actually aligned, not just correct on paper. I'm an empath, sensitive to what other people are feeling before they say it — which is probably the whole reason curation makes sense to me as work.
And on top of it all, I'm an ENFP: a masterful communicator, someone who expresses the same feeling five different ways depending on who's in front of me, and who's stopped needing to prove anything to get to the truth of it.
If I had to name what I'm actually good at: it's discernment, connection, and compassion — knowing what's true in a room, finding the thread that ties two people together, and caring about both enough to follow through. My passions run through teaching, advising, and entertaining, which is probably why curating never felt like a stretch. It's just those three things aimed at music instead of anything else.
I'm Indigenous, from the Tubatulabal Tribe here in California, and I'm queer.
Both shape how I see connection — as something older and wider than any one version of it.
Morning pages, meditation, gratitude journaling — none of that is self-care in the trendy sense.
It's how I keep knowing myself well enough to actually pour into other people, instead of running on empty and calling it generosity.
You can't curate depth for someone else without doing that work on yourself first.
I wake up excited now. I wake up knowing that what I share and say actually matters to somebody. If you feel that pull too — this is for you.
Because life without music would fucking suck.
The Listening Room is where we prove it doesn't have to.
Got something to say to me directly — a song, a story, a "hey, this made me feel something"? I read everything myself.
