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As I was composing “I Remember”, it was never just a tune—it was a return to the parts of my past I still carry. The lines and rhythm transported me to the forest-farm of my childhood, and to the weight of those years.

“I Remember” is a kind of time travel. Not just laughter and light, but the full landscape: the chaos and the calm. It captures the the love of my mother.

The melody is a lifeline that ties me to my roots. And in singing it, I give breath to those who shaped me.

That's why I became an artist. Not through some career ambition, but because the silence inside me needed form. Trauma, memory, identity—they needed space. And that's what sculpture became: a still, silent prayer.

Sculpture taught me patience. Unlike words, form stays. I learned to shape pain, to take what was buried and place it where others could feel it. Each sculpture is a way of saying: I survived this, and I remember.

My creative journey isn't about perfection. It's about connection. I switch between forms like the tides move—inevitable, rhythmic, necessary. When I can't carve, I sing. When I can't sing, I write. And when all I can do is breathe and be still—I listen. That, too, is art.

There's a phrase that anchors me through it all: “Because of you, I am; and because of me, you are.” That's what “I Remember” means to me. It's not only mine—it's a whisper to those who walked before.

When I sing it, I think of the quiet strength of my mother. I think of the hands that helped me up.

I remember. And in doing so, I live.

So when you hear the song, you're not just hearing me—you're hearing a whakapapa of survival. It's not performance—it's a return. A healing. A remembering.

And that's what my art is always trying to do. Singer Songwriter