Back to the Studio I
Shortly after releasing my second album (Naked Prayers) back in 2015, my father passed away. I went through with the motions of launching the book and album and playing a few shows, but as soon as the events I planned were done, I completely crashed. I was exhausted. I missed my father with every fiber of my being. I wanted to cry every time I thought of singing. (I sometimes still do.)
Music and I have had a complicated relationship. Singing and songwriting felt like a natural extension of myself when I was young. Through growing up in Hong Kong, spending a year in Ethiopia, moving to the US… I always found an outlet to sing and make music. But as I explored making music into a “career” after graduating from university, I started running into all kinds of internal battles: but am I good enough? Does this help anyone? What’s the point of me making music when people so much better than me were doing that?
I was infuriatingly insecure. I judged my own work harshly, and quietly felt ashamed of how shallow, unoriginal, blehhhh my music was. I realize, growing up with a strong dose of Chinese pragmatism and communal mindset, “being an artist” always seemed vain, individualistic, “Western” (i.e. selfish), and ultimately only reserved for the true genius among us — in which case the calling was noble, beautiful, and worthwhile.
My father had been someone who simplified the world for me: if you want to do something, do it. He loved that I was always a little different. When I was a child, he would read these short stories I wrote and tell me all the things he enjoyed about them. He took simple delight in my creativity. Without him, other voices became overwhelming, and I struggled to keep going.
So I stopped.
I channeled all my energy into a new direction: graphic design, and started a boutique branding agency in Harlem with my closest friend. I turned to focusing on other people’s stories. I encouraged entrepreneurs to believe in themselves, to trust their intuition, to be bold — all things I had failed to do for myself. We worked with over 100 clients in our first few years, and even started teaching about small business branding through a center at Columbia University.
As I worked with or taught hundreds of budding entrepreneurs, never once did I think: hmmm, you’re really not very good, I think you need to give up and do something you’re less interested in. Rather, the times I disagreed with the direction they were going in, was when they were giving in to what they thought they should do, what they imagined others would think, rather than focusing on where their strengths and passions met.
Then in 2018, Mia was born. At first I thought I’d just take a 2-month maternity leave. That turned into three months, four, fix, six… eight months. During that time when I wasn’t fully occupied with my design work, the ache to make music again grew and grew. I realized, that desire had never gone away, I’d just tried really, really hard to suppress it. And being with a baby (who suppressed absolutely nothing) all day every day somehow made what I truly wanted to be doing undeniable. I wanted to write songs, to sing, to play in cafes, to connect with people who related to what I sang about.
So I started writing again. With all my insecurities ringing in my ears, I put my grief, joy, confusion, and immense doubt into song. I reached out to an artist and producer I had long admired, Jon Seale (of Mason Jar Music), and asked if he would be willing to produce the album.
And we started in January 2020.
Want something to listen to before the new music comes? Here’s a playlist of my past favourites on Spotify.
The story continues, and gets a little darker. In February 2020 Mark and I found out we’d had miscarriage. It was a blurry and heavy haze of sadness. I didn’t know exactly what I’d lost, and I missed what I will never know I missed. Somehow, we kept stumbling forward.