California 2024 Recap

Creating at the Edge of Everything

It was early September 2024, the last days of our two-week trip. We had rented a house in Twentynine Palms, working on music all day. Just before sunset, we stepped outside for a walk.

The heat still lingered, but the light was unreal. The desert sky was painted so beautiful and I said, almost absentmindedly, "This is a perfect mood for a music video."

Chief didn’t hesitate. He turned to me, eyes already in the space where ideas live. "Yes!" – This mastermind had a full script in his head before I could even process what was happening.

We sprinted back to the house, grabbed the recording equipment and a pot of water. We drenched his skin, covered him in dirt and sand. Five minutes later, we were back outside. Chief ran toward our chosen spot, yelling, "ARE YOU RECORDING? ARE YOU RECORDING?" – I was.

We shot the entire song three or four times before the light shifted. The moment passed, but we had it — captured, real, raw.

That night, we kept going, we recorded a full podcast episode. The day before (or was it after?), we had written and recorded an entire song in a single day.

But here’s what I know for sure: None of this would have been possible without intense time that came before it.

The Leap of Intuition

A year ago I found Chief through a video. His energy was mesmerizing. I left a comment, and two months later, we ran into each other at a festival in Germany. A heart-centered hello, but there was no time for much more. Later, I visited his co-living house for a few hours, but still, we hadn’t really connected.

Yet something in me said: There’s something to learn with this person.

Time passed, and he moved back to Los Angeles. But my feeling stayed. Until one day, we finally decided to meet.

I booked a flight. A hotel for the first night.
Beyond that? No plan. Just curiosity.

Finding the Groove

After meeting in LA, we started the trip in Big Bear. A friend (😘 Helge, you're a Hero) offered us their cabin in the woods for a week of music, movement, and long conversations.

From the very beginning, creativity was always there. We weren’t figuring out if we could create together — we knew that part would work. But in between the music, we found something deeper.

We tested each other. Not intentionally — but through the simple act of showing up fully as ourselves. I remember one of our first real creative clashes.

I had asked Chief to record a rough vocal guide track. First take wasn’t it, so I deleted it and said, "Let’s do this again."
He stopped. "Wait, you just deleted the take?"
"Yeah," I said. "This is how I work. Let’s go again."

I was deep in my own creative flow. Focused. Unapologetic. I had a vision, an action plan, and no room for adjustments. I wanted to create.

What I didn’t realize was that I had just hurt him — not just by deleting the take, but by insisting on my way, without space for his. We later learned that we have very different approaches to recording, and that’s totally fine. But in that moment, my focus on output over connection felt like a dismissal.

It took us time to unravel. And to me it felt brutal. 

I have my issues with disharmony and am still learning that just because two people clash, it doesn’t mean everything is falling apart. But we stayed with it. We moved through it. We let the emotions rise, let the discomfort be seen.

And in the end? We grew from it.
We stayed. Through the tension, the chaos, the work.

The Mirror Moment

Funny enough, that moment in the desert? It was the same pattern, just reversed.

This time, Chief was the one fully in his flow — pushing forward, driving the vision, focused only on creation. And I was the one feeling unseen, a tool in service of his creative genius. He was loud, urgent, moving at a speed that left no space for connection.

And it hurt. It didn’t feel good to work under that pressure. I could feel frustration rising, my chest got tense as the drive to create collided with the need to be seen, and for a few beats, we were out of sync.

We had just created something so beautiful. And yet I felt like shit.

But just like in Big Bear, we took the time to process it. To say what needed to be said, to hold space for what came up.

This is the groove we found.
A rhythm of trust, showing up, embracing everything, and ultimately, love.

The Space We Choose to Hold

I believe that as musicians, as artists, we have a unique ability to use our creative intuition to access the unconscious. The number of times I’ve written a line for a song, only to understand years later what I was truly expressing... it's mind-bending.

And yet, this process is deeply intimate, vulnerable, and raw — so much so that most creatives I know do it in private. It marks a boundary, a line where a piece transitions from something internal to something shared.

This boundary fascinates me. What happens when we shift it? How far can we move it — safely?

With Chief, I felt I could access this depth. I was able to let down some of the guards around my core creative process. And as I opened myself up like that, things got messy, beautiful, twisted, and deep.

This sounds scary, right? But when we choose to stay through this, when we choose to hold this space for each other — that’s when something truly powerful happens.

I will keep doing this.

I’m eager to uncover what happens when people fully show up in their creative process.

And if this resonates with you, if you feel the pull to create in a space where everything is welcome: let’s talk.

There will be group retreats and intimate 1-on-1 journeys coming up, and I’d love to explore this together with you.