How I Fell in Love with Music

While I was growing up back in my childhood days, my mom would play the classics in the car all the time on repeat. All of the song tracks from the '90s and early 2000s. That was the soundtrack to my early life. Those songs weren’t just music; they were tied to the memories I made with my brothers. That’s what raised me.

I still remember the first album I fell in love with: Soulja Boy’s debut, back in 2007. I had it in my CD player on repeat so much but the disc eventually started skipping. My mom used to burn all our favorite albums on CDs straight from her computer. Any new release we wanted, she’d hook us up—loading tracks onto our MP3 players or burning them for our CD players.

We grew up on legends:
2Pac, Ice Cube, Lil Wayne, Snoop Dogg, 50 Cent, DMX, and Lil Jon & the Eastside Boyz.
That era was gold. That was our era.

Even when we were just going for a ride in the car, more hip hop and R&B would pour from the speakers. I’d sit in the front seat while my mom rapped 2Pac’s Greatest Hits from front to back—word for word.

But not every song hit the same.
There was one I couldn’t stand: “Always On Time” by Ja Rule and Ashanti. Every time he said “Buckshots!” in the beginning, I’d go quiet and stare out the window. My mom would glance back in the rearview and ask what was wrong—but really, I just wanted her to skip the song. I don’t know why it hit me like that, but to this day, that song is a running joke in my family. Childhood memories like that stick with you.

As time passed, the music changed—and so did I.
New artists started shaping my taste: Soulja Boy, Lil B, Playboi Carti, Famous Dex, Migos, OG Maco, Rich the Kid, and Jose Guapo.

That generation hit differently. The 808s, the bass, the energy—it pulled me in. It made me want to make music too.

And when I started, it wasn’t even a decision.
It felt like a natural extension of me.

I don’t just hear music—I see it.
When I close my eyes and a song plays, I see colors. Blue, orange, green, purple, and sometimes black. It’s like I’m painting pictures with sound. It’s always been that way, but I never told anyone. I thought that it was something unique to me.

When I first started rapping, I wasn’t good.
I’ll admit that.

One of my brothers was cold with it. I was his hype man.
He’d freestyle, and I’d beatbox or do ad-libs. And even though we used to fight growing up, music brought us closer.

We’d have dance battles in the living room. Joke around until we couldn’t breathe. Freestyle sessions turned into bonding sessions.

By senior year, I was messing with GarageBand on my iPhone, making beats after school, and saving them up. I’d play them on the bus ride home, and my brother would hop on one of them like it was a real studio track.

We made magic with what we had.
It didn’t matter if the beat was “good” by anyone else’s standards—we knew when it felt right.

We recorded my first song together. It’s still out there, raw and unpolished, with him coaching me in the background.
But that was the start.

Since then, I’ve gotten better.
I learned how to write, punch in, freestyle, and most importantly—create.
And even without him by my side now, I’ve never stopped growing.

People online tell me every day that I should be getting paid for this. That I’m good. And while I stay humble, I know how far I’ve come from not being able to rhyme two words.

We used to chill and record in the basement like it was a real studio. Those were timeless moments.

Since then, I’ve made over 200 songs—and counting.
Some got deleted. Some are lost forever.
But they all meant something.

I’ve woken up in the middle of the night to write down bars.
Freestyled lyrics in my head during school.
Carried notebooks full of verses—one of which I gave to a best friend who shared that same bond with music.

We haven’t talked much recently, but we’re still connected.

Some people make a career out of this.
Some get signed.
I’ve had opportunities—emails, messages, DMs—that maybe could’ve changed my life.
But I’ll never know if they were real.

And I’m not trying to brag.

All I’m saying is:
Doing something you love—something that brings you peace—can be scary if you think about making it a career. But it’s also powerful. Motivating.

Music, like life, is about taking risks.
Sometimes you want to stay in the shallow end.
But eventually, you’ve got to swim.

Even if you take it slow.
Even if you need a life jacket at first.

Every step counts.

And I’m still stepping.