I grew up with an ADHD mind long before anyone had the language for it. At school it looked like distraction and disruption. I was labeled slow and difficult.

I carried that with me. The shame. The quiet sense that I wasn’t enough. Creativity felt risky. Attention felt fragile. Self-belief felt out of reach.

For years I tried to prove everyone wrong. But every mistake felt like confirmation of what I’d been told, and the cycle repeated.

It took me a long time to realise there was never anything wrong with me. I was simply wired differently, operating in a world and a system that didn’t understand me.

For as long as I can remember, music was the first thing that could calm my body and steady my mind. It helped me make sense of what I was feeling before I had the maturity to understand it.

I didn’t analyse it. I didn’t try to fix anything. I just turned to sound and found what I needed in that moment.

Later in life, long-form mixes gave my attention somewhere to land. They created space I couldn’t reach through words or thoughts alone. Music didn’t need to explain anything, it just worked.

This is where the practice that became Lost Keys began. Long before it had a name. Before I recognised it as a practice at all. It was simply something I did.

For most of my life, I waited to feel ready. That moment never came. Burnout did. That’s when I realised permission is a decision.

Lost Keys began the day I stopped asking for it. Using a project name gave me space to experiment, to fail, to be honest without performing. I could create on my own terms.

That first step mattered more than any plan or skill. It wasn’t about perfection. It was about practice. Not performance, but presence.

At first, these mixes were private. But I came to realise other people use music the same way; to cope, reflect, or move through feelings that are hard to explain. Sharing the work felt more honest than keeping it hidden.

Lost Keys became a space anyone can step into, without explanation, performance, or expectation. A space to exist with music, notice what’s happening inside you, and return if it resonates.

A practice, not a project

Lost Keys continues because the practice still works. I make mixes to stay present with what’s happening, not to document growth or chase anything.

Track Notes exist as context, not instruction. Capturing headspace, movement, and the moment a mix was made. The same mix can land differently over time, reflecting change, not failure.

This work isn’t about being heard.
It’s about staying honest and offering a tool that has helped me navigate my own internal noise.

I’m always losing things: keys, focus, patience, direction. What used to frustrate me, I now meet with acceptance and humor.

Lost Keys is a reminder that disorientation isn’t failure. Sometimes losing your place is the way you find your way back. The name holds the spirit of the work: imperfect, human, real.

It’s small, protective, symbolic; a nod to ADHD, my quirks, and the patience I’m still learning to embrace today.