I grew up in Skyline, Alabama, in a place where the roads were quiet, the mountains were high, and life moved at the kind of pace that lets music sink in deep. My childhood home sat right next to my grandparents’ house, so family wasn’t something I visited on weekends—it was part of everyday life. There was always something familiar and grounding about that closeness, like roots you could feel under your feet even when you didn’t think about them.

Music was there from the beginning, even before I understood it in a real way. My dad used to take me to bluegrass festivals when I was a kid. We’d camp out under the stars, set up chairs in fields, and spend whole days surrounded by music that felt alive and unpolished in the best way. I rode horses, ran around festival grounds, and somehow always found my way back to the music. I didn’t just watch the jams—I grew up inside them.

At home, I’d pick around on my dad’s guitars, not really knowing what I was doing, just drawn to the sound of it. He eventually bought me my own Martin when I turned 16, and that changed everything. That guitar became the place I started putting all the things I didn’t yet know how to say. Around that same time, I was often in the back seat of the car, singing along to whatever was playing—especially Alison Krauss & Union Station. Those songs weren’t just background music; they shaped how I heard emotion, harmony, and storytelling long before I ever thought of doing it myself.

As I got older, music became less of something I was surrounded by and more of something I actively chased. In my teenage years, my parents started taking me to Nashville regularly. We’d go see live music at places like The Station Inn and the Ryman Auditorium. Those nights became routine for us—we were there nearly every week. I’d sit in those rooms, taking it all in, completely unaware that I was building the foundation of my future. The drive home always felt too short, and I’d wake up exhausted the next morning, but I never wanted to miss it. Music was worth it!

Eventually, Nashville stopped being just a place I visited and became a place I couldn’t stop thinking about. I fell in love with the energy, the community, the writers, and the constant hum of creativity. When I turned 20, I moved there.

That’s when the real grind began. I spent my early years in Nashville writing, recording, and playing every small show I could get. I learned by doing—by showing up, performing, failing, growing, and trying again. 

In June of 2020, I released my debut album, Winnebago, something I had poured myself into fully. I had plans for touring and a full calendar ahead, but like so many others, the pandemic shut everything down almost overnight. Shows were canceled, momentum stalled, and music as I knew it suddenly got quiet.

Life shifted. I got married, stepped back for a while, and let things breathe. That season wasn’t wasted—it just looked different than I expected. It gave me space to live more life, reflect, and eventually find my way back to why I started making music in the first place.

Now I’m back—and more intentional than ever.

I’m releasing new music, playing more shows, and for the first time, I’m writing from a place that is fully my own. These songs aren’t just stories I’m telling—they’re pieces of my life, shaped by where I come from, what I’ve experienced, and everything I’ve grown into along the way.

Skyline, Alabama gave me my roots. Nashville gave me my voice. And now, I’m just getting started telling the rest of the story.