Stuck Song Syndrome

It all began with an earworm - the theme from Barbie in the 12 Dancing Princesses.
I had never touched a piano before, but humming it wasn’t enough. Something inside me needed to bring it to life.

So I went downstairs, opened the piano, and began pressing random keys, trying to make sense of the layout. Then… I played the last three keys on the piano - and they matched the first three notes of the song in my head.

Something clicked.

Within minutes, I had figured out the entire piece by ear.
I still remember that moment vividly - like a door had opened to a world I never knew existed.
That was the day music quietly became a part of me.

The Disconnect

Eventually, my sister and I were both sent to piano lessons with several teachers.
But instead of feeling inspired, I began to feel disconnected.
I loved playing by ear - chasing a feeling, letting my fingers find the notes naturally.
But in class, the focus was on theory, and I often felt behind.

I never reached the point of being formally given sheet music in class. Instead, I borrowed my sister’s in secret and taught myself the songs she was learning.

Over time, I began to believe I just wasn’t cut out for music.
What I once loved started to feel like a chore.
Eventually, I walked away - not out of lack of love, but out of heartbreak.

A New Spark Under The Spotlight

Even though I had stopped playing the piano, music never truly left me.
I began to sing - quietly, in secret, unsure if my voice was worth being heard.

Some nights, our family would do karaoke together. I noticed how much my parents lit up when it came to singing, in a way they never quite did with sports, and in my child-mind, I thought: maybe if I sing, I’ll earn their love and approval. What began as a way to be seen slowly turned into something real - I truly fell in love with singing.

The school talent shows became milestones in that journey. For the first time, my friends and I formed a group and auditioned for a song together. We were thrilled to be selected.
In the weeks before the show, we would meet at each other’s houses to practise.
During one rehearsal at my house, I was ridiculed in front of my friends by being compared to another girl in our group because I wasn’t dancing as much as her while singing. The comment wasn’t even about my voice - it was about something else entirely. And though it might have seemed small, it touched an old wound.
Another comparison. Another chip at my self-esteem.

Few years later, we auditioned again as a group, but didn’t get in.
Later, I heard a rumour that we hadn’t been chosen because of me and one of my friends.
At the time, I was already carrying so much self-doubt that those words cut deeper than I wanted them to.

By my final year, the talent show felt like my last chance.
I told myself, If I don’t get in, so what? At least I’ll leave knowing I tried.
We auditioned again - the same group, without the girl who had made that comment - performing the same song that hadn’t been selected before.
This time, we got in.
And for the first time, I also auditioned for a solo.
That year, only two solos were chosen… and one of them was mine (basically my “mic drop” moment - except I had to hand the mic back after :p).

At home, practising for my solo wasn’t always easy. My younger brother would try to actively sabotage me - switching off the mic, screaming to disrupt me, minimising and mocking me. It was a reminder that the challenges weren’t only at school, but sometimes in my own home.

Then, on the very morning of the final show, I woke up with a horrible sore throat and almost considered pulling out. But I refused to let my group mates - or myself - down. I pushed through. Backstage, my partner was there with warm water and endless encouragement, hyping me up before both the school show and the final. And though my brother later tried to convince my mom that I had “screwed up” during the school show I had proof I hadn’t, thanks to a recording my partner had taken of the whole thing.

My mom and sister encouraged me to choose the song for my solo, and my mom even had an outfit stitched for the night. My family came to watch, and I was grateful to see them in the audience. But more than anything, I knew the real journey of getting there - the countless practices despite my brother’s sabotages, the comparisons I had endured, and the rumours that tried to undermine me - was something I had carried on my own. And that made stepping into the lights feel all the more powerful.

That night, standing on the stage under the spotlight, both in the group and alone with a microphone in my hands, there were no nerves, no fear - just a deep sense of knowing that I was exactly where I was meant to be.

These experiences taught me something valuable ever since:
comparisons, rumours, and even sabotage can’t define you.
Support may appear or fade, but the strength you build within yourself is what lasts. True confidence doesn’t announce itself; it shows up quietly, in the moments you choose to rise anyway.

Remember, not everyone will recognise your worth - sometimes because it doesn’t fit the picture they expect. Maybe you’re not the loudest voice in the room or the most outwardly expressive. But that doesn’t make your gifts any less real. In the end, your worth isn’t determined by who sees it - it’s determined by how deeply you believe in it yourself.

Reigniting The Lost Spark

After graduating school, I moved to Australia in 2019 for my higher studies.

In early 2022, life shifted unexpectedly - I fractured my femur and became bedridden.
Everything slowed down… except music.

For our 5th anniversary, my partner gifted me a digital piano. At first, I played just to pass time. But soon, something shifted. I returned to the way I played as a child - by ear, by feeling, by freedom.
An unconventional technique, perhaps, but that’s when I realised: maybe the conventional way isn’t always the only way. Sometimes the truest way is the one that feels authentic to you.

Just a Game - Until it Wasn't

I started challenging myself to figure out songs by ear - quickly. At first, it was just a game. Then I began experimenting with sounds, layering feelings into melodies.
Slowly, original music began to flow.

Featherfall, my debut single, was actually the tenth melody I wrote during recovery.
I produced and mixed it entirely on free software. It wasn’t perfect, but it was honest - and it felt like me.
I wasn’t planning on releasing it - but with encouragement from the people who believed in me most, I took the leap.