I never thought I’d release a music album. To be honest, I never even planned on writing one. But life has a funny way of handing you pain and then, if you’re lucky, offering you a melody to carry it.
This album — Baptized in Regret — was born out of a very personal place. It’s not just a collection of songs; it’s a reflection of everything I was too scared to say out loud for far too long. As a teen, I struggled with the kind of trauma that doesn’t leave visible scars. It came from a place that was supposed to be safe: my church. In South Windsor, Connecticut, where I grew up, I was fed teachings that didn’t nourish my soul — they starved it. The environment twisted what was supposed to be unconditional love into judgment, shame, and fear. It left a bruise on my spirit I carried into adulthood, quietly, sometimes not even realizing it was still there.
Writing this album was my way of finally looking at that bruise. I didn’t want to hand these lyrics off to someone else — I needed to sing them myself. I needed to produce every sound, every harmony, every echo of grief and resilience. So I did. I became the sole artist on this project. It was just me and the truth, alone in a room, rewriting my story with rhythm.
Oddly enough, the process was… fun. Don’t get me wrong — it hurt. A lot. Some nights I cried halfway through a verse. But other nights, I danced in my living room listening to a beat that somehow turned pain into power. And that’s where the hope comes in. Because the music? It’s actually pretty cool. It’s raw and imperfect and real. It’s me.
I didn’t release Baptized in Regret to chase fame or downloads. I released it because maybe, just maybe, someone else out there has sat in a pew and felt completely unseen. Maybe someone else has questioned everything they believed because of the cruelty of those who claimed to speak for God. And maybe hearing my story wrapped in a bassline will help them feel a little less alone.
This album isn’t a goodbye to the past. It’s more like a peace treaty. A moment where I stood up, microphone in hand, and said: You don’t own me anymore.
So here it is. My heart, in verses and choruses. I hope you find something in it that sings to your own story too.