I’ve had a deep relationship with music for as long as I can remember. In the beginning, it wasn’t something I tried to understand, it was instinctive. I wasn’t just drawn to how it sounded, but to how it made me feel. There was something immediate and unspoken about it, something I connected to without needing to explain or justify.

Growing up, the world often felt loud, chaotic, and overwhelming. I didn’t have the language for that at the time, but music became a way to quiet the noise. It created space and a sense of grounding, something I could return to when everything else felt like too much. It allowed me to come back to myself in a way nothing else could.

School was not an environment where I thrived. Whether it was undiagnosed ADHD, dyslexia, or simply being wired differently, I struggled within systems that were not built for how my mind worked. Instead of feeling supported, I was often made to feel like I was the problem. Music became the one place where that narrative did not hold and where I could exist without judgement.

As I got older, my relationship with music began to shift. What started as something I consumed became something I could shape and influence. I found myself drawn not just to listening, but to understanding how sound could be arranged to create a feeling. It became less about what I liked and more about what I needed in a given moment.

I began building playlists, then longer-form mixes that helped me move through different states. Sometimes I needed to sit with a feeling, sometimes to shift it, and sometimes simply to get through it. Without fully realising it, I was using music as a way to regulate what felt difficult to manage. These collections of sound became a way of navigating experiences I could not always put into words.

Moving into DJing and production gave me a deeper sense of creative control. It allowed me to move beyond searching for what I needed and into creating it for myself. The focus was never on individual tracks or technical perfection, but on how everything came together to create a sense of direction and movement. These sessions became personal and intentional, shaped by real moments and lived experience.

For a long time, I kept this to myself. There was a deeply rooted belief that I needed permission to create, or that I had to earn the right to share anything publicly. That what I had to offer was not enough, or would not be understood, taken seriously, or seen as credible. Over time, that belief quietly shaped how I showed up, or more often, how I didn’t.

That began to change. I started to realise that the act of creating this was already enough. That the only permission required was my own. Waiting for approval was not protection, it was delay. A way of keeping myself small while convincing myself I was simply being careful.

At the same time, I began to understand that if this process supports me, it may also support others in some way. Not in the same way, and not for the same reasons, but still in a way that matters. Sharing Lost Keys is both expression and release, letting go of fear, hesitation, and the belief that I should stay hidden. It is a way of showing up honestly, creating without expectation, and allowing the work to exist as it is. And if it resonates with someone along the way, then it has already done more than I ever expected.

The way I use music is not unique, even if the process may look different. Many of us turn to music when words fall short, when something feels difficult to explain or fully understand. It has the ability to shift us, hold us, or help us move through something we might otherwise avoid. In that sense, music becomes more than something we listen to, it becomes something we rely on.

For me, these sessions have become tools. I can often feel what I need instinctively and either return to something I have already created or build something new to meet that moment. Lost Keys is the collection of those tools, shaped by real experiences and real needs. Each session exists for a reason, even if that reason is not always obvious at first.

In sharing this, the intention is not to tell people what to feel, but to offer a space where they can explore their own experience. It is for those who feel something through music they cannot quite put into words, and for those open to moving beyond genre or preference into something more intuitive. What you take from it will always be your own, but the space is there if you need it.

One of the most important things I’ve come to understand is that music is not static. It is relational. The music itself may not change, but we do. Our experiences, emotional states, and nervous systems all shape how we hear and respond to what we are listening to. What we hear is never fixed, it is always influenced by who we are in that moment.

A session that does not connect at one point in time might resonate deeply at another. Something that once felt distant can suddenly feel familiar, even necessary. This is why revisiting matters. Music evolves in meaning as we do, and the same piece can hold entirely different weight depending on where we are in life.

When we listen purely through taste or preference, we often limit ourselves to what feels immediately comfortable. But when listening is guided by feeling instead, we open ourselves to something broader: new sounds, new experiences, and new ways of understanding ourselves. Sometimes what we need is not what we would normally choose, and when we find it, it can shift more than mood alone, it can change perspective.

For a long time, I kept this to myself. There was a deeply rooted belief that I needed permission to create, or that I had to earn the right to share anything publicly. That what I had to offer was not enough, or would not be understood, taken seriously, or seen as credible. Over time, that belief quietly shaped how I showed up, or more often, how I didn’t.

That began to change. I started to realise that the act of creating this was already enough. That the only permission required was my own. Waiting for approval was not protection, it was delay. A way of keeping myself small while convincing myself I was simply being careful.

At the same time, I began to understand that if this process supports me, it may also support others in some way. Not in the same way, and not for the same reasons, but still in a way that matters. Sharing Lost Keys is both expression and release, letting go of fear, hesitation, and the belief that I should stay hidden. It is a way of showing up honestly, creating without expectation, and allowing the work to exist as it is. And if it resonates with someone along the way, then it has already done more than I ever expected.