“Waiting in the Shadows” is one of the darkest songs I’ve ever written. It came from that quiet but constant anxiety I live with, the fear of cancer. Both of my parents have had their own battles with it, and sometimes it feels like it’s just waiting for me in the dark, like a monster biding its time. That fear creeps into your mind when you least expect it, whispering what-ifs that are hard to shake.

I wanted to capture that feeling through horror, because that’s exactly what it is. The song turns cancer into a demon lurking in the shadows, feeding on fear, waiting to strike. The guitars snarl, the vocals bleed tension, and the atmosphere feels like a nightmare you can’t quite wake up from.

But underneath it all, there’s defiance. “Waiting in the Shadows” isn’t just about the fear, it’s about fighting it. It’s about staring into that darkness and refusing to give it control. Every scream, every riff, is me pushing back against the thought that my fate is already written.

This song is my way of taking something terrifying and turning it into strength, because even when the shadows close in, I’m not going quietly.

Back in high school, I watched I Love You, Man and thought it was hilarious… but I couldn’t relate at all. I was everywhere: salutatorian in the scholar crowd, on the math team, captain of the football team, four-year varsity baseball player, and just starting to find my music crew. I had so many friend groups that the idea of struggling to meet people seemed impossible.

Fast forward to now… and wow, it’s a different story. I’m holding onto old friends by a thread and finding it almost impossible to make new ones. Everyone’s deep in hustle mode, working nonstop. Back in the day, people made friends at work. Now we’re so burnt out after hours that we just need space from each other.

I don’t have the solution, but I know this: real friendships are worth protecting. Every connection counts. I wrote this song to remind myself, and maybe you, to cherish the ones we’ve got.

Every family has its cracks. For me, one of the biggest was distance.

When I was a kid, my parents made the move from Massachusetts to Florida. That physical distance — especially before FaceTime, texting, and social media — created emotional distance too. I grew up without strong bonds to my grandparents, cousins, aunts, or uncles. It wasn’t anyone’s fault exactly, but I always felt that gap.

As I got older, that emotional distance started to bother me more. I couldn’t understand why one set of grandparents never came to visit. The other came only once after we moved. That stung — especially when I saw my wife’s grandmother making cross-country trips well into her 80s to be with her grandkids.

But then I learned something that shifted everything: my grandfather was terrified of flying. That was the reason. It had nothing to do with me. And after he passed, my grandmother ended up moving down to Florida. We finally got the chance to reconnect — and we did. I got time with her. Real time. And I’ll never take that for granted.

“When We Mended” is about that second chance. About breaking through misunderstandings and showing up before it’s too late. I was lucky — I got to close a chapter the right way. But life doesn’t always give us that shot. When it does, we’ve got to take it.

Anxiety sucks — especially stage anxiety. And when your dream is to be a touring musician, it can feel like the ultimate contradiction. I’ve come a long way from where I started, but I know not everyone is that lucky. So here’s my story.

I grew up in the ‘stranger danger’ era of the ’90s. Trust didn’t come easy, and being around people I didn’t know made me uncomfortable for a long time.

I still remember hiding behind my parents when they dropped me off at pre-school. In elementary school, I’d get overwhelmed around big groups of kids. The school play? Terrifying. I felt like I was being thrown into the lion’s den.

Looking back, I grew up in a bubble — same small group of classmates, same sports teams, same extracurriculars. It wasn’t until college that I was truly pushed outside of that comfort zone. Thrown to the wolves, as they say. I didn’t exactly thrive socially at first, but at least the fear began to fade.

Even as an adult in the workforce, though, I still couldn’t shake the nerves. Presenting at a meeting? My heart would pound like it was trying to escape my chest.

They say everyone has an a-ha moment when it comes to breaking through a major fear. For me, that moment didn’t come overnight — it was built over time, through music, experience, and constantly forcing myself to show up despite the fear.

That journey inspired my song “Out of My Shell.” It’s about finally stepping into who you are — even if it takes years to get there.

Communication is everything. I’ve been incredibly frustrated at many points in my life over a lack of communication. I’ve seen failed communication cause major issues in education, relationships, friendships, family, education, music and the corporate world. I continue to fight with this reality everyday.

My marriage was inches from failing since we weren’t telling each other how we really felt. Things would just heat up to a boiling point and then explode. Thankfully, we learned our lesson and have since pledged to tell each other when we are frustrated immediately. Even if the issue seems trivial, we still share it. This method has worked wonders!

If you really think about it, everything we do requires relationships, so the same requirement applies. I’ll give the example of my corporate engineering job. I have worked for leadership that blatantly lied to us and have worked for leadership who is completely transparent. Can you guess which one frustrated me (and others) to no end?

If you aren’t over communicating, you aren’t communicating. We can’t read minds, and sorry there is no such thing as mansplaining or womansplaining. We were given voices for a reason, and we need to use them to make sure we are always on the same page.

I present to you “Pour it Out”.

“Identity” was written about the experience of being caught in the comparison trap. In the age of social media, it’s easier than ever to fall in. We scroll through highlight reels, perfectly curated photos, and seemingly flawless lives, and it’s natural to start questioning our own worth. I’ve been there myself—caught in the cycle of wanting to be someone I wasn’t. I found myself chasing an illusion, longing for a version of life that wasn’t even real. The result? Unhappiness and a growing sense of inadequacy.

It’s important to remember that much of what we see online is just a facade, a polished snapshot of someone’s best moments, not their reality. I was fooled into believing that these carefully crafted portrayals were authentic, and in doing so, I lost sight of what truly mattered—embracing who I am and the unique life I’ve been given.

Don’t let this trap steal your joy. It’s a game you can never win because it’s built on falsehoods. True happiness comes from self-acceptance, from celebrating your individuality, and from living a life that’s genuine and true to you. Remember, the world doesn’t need another copy of someone else—it needs the authentic version of you. So stop comparing and start appreciating the beauty of your own journey.

I wrote this song during an election year, a time when tensions were high, and the flaws in our system felt glaringly obvious. I noticed a troubling pattern: both political parties seemed to be caught in a cycle, making the same mistakes repeatedly, unwilling or unable to break free from the status quo. It was frustrating to watch, and it sparked a deep reflection in me—not just about politics, but about the mistakes we all make in our own lives.

This song serves as a spotlight on those recurring errors, the ones I’m constantly reminded of by my conscience. They’re the small, seemingly insignificant moments where I could have done better, as well as the larger missteps that have shaped who I am today. These memories linger, not as a source of regret, but as lessons that urge me to grow.

The message is clear: regardless of how small or large the mistake, we must take the time to recall, reflect, and learn from them. Mistakes aren’t meant to define us—they’re meant to teach us. When we hold onto those lessons and use them to guide our actions, we can break free from the cycles that hold us back. History, both personal and collective, doesn’t have to repeat itself. This song is a call to accountability, growth, and the power of change when we commit to truly learning from the past.

I’ve heard “don’t judge a book by its cover” more times than I can count but honestly, it often feels like no one actually lives by that.

In sports, music, engineering, and even relationships, I’ve been misjudged more times than I care to admit. It’s tough when someone forms a picture of you that isn’t true, especially when that person is in a position of power. Once that image is locked in, it can take years to undo.

I’ve had to fight to prove myself again and again, most recently in my engineering career, where I had to show my value and dedication after someone in leadership made an incorrect assumption.. It’s exhausting, and frankly, no one should have to carry that weight just to be seen clearly.

“The Wrong Lens” is a reminder that you never really know who someone is until you take the time to look deeper. People are more than surface-level impressions and sometimes, the ones who are most overlooked are the ones with the most to give.