Nothing Is Wrong: From Storm to Serenity

Nothing Is Wrong is what I said to survive—but every note tells the truth: storm, fracture, survival, and finally, a breath of serenity.

When I created Nothing Is Wrong, I wasn’t just making music. I was trying to chart a map of survival. Each track was a snapshot of what it feels like to live inside my head with mental illness and disability—sometimes loud, sometimes unbearably quiet. The album was my way of saying what I couldn’t say out loud, wrapped in sound. The title, Nothing Is Wrong, is the lie I told myself—and the world—for years. It’s what masking sounds like. It’s what survival sounds like. But behind it, every track is saying something else. Something harder. Something truer.

I’m writing this now because I was finally inspired to release the first and last songs as I had originally intended—stitched together, like the opening and closing of a book.

The new song, I’m Okay; I Remember, carries the heart of that idea in its title—beginning with the mask, ending with the memory. A single track that carries the arc of the whole album: storm to calm, mask to memory.

Full album below; scroll on the list to see more songs

The opening track, I’m Okay, never came out right the first time. It was supposed to be thick with instruments, layered like the final track, but set against the backdrop of a thunderstorm. The storm was crucial: the sound of everything building inside me, pressure rising, air heavy, thunder cracking outside the window while I whispered to myself that I was fine. It is the mask in its purest form: the polished surface, the words people want to hear, while inside the storm rages louder with every passing minute.

I’m Not Okay arrives when the mask breaks. It is messy, jagged, overwhelming. A meltdown in sound form. The kind of collapse where everything you’ve been holding back bursts through at once. It doesn’t build gently—it floods. This track is not about neatness, but about the violence of release, the body and mind throwing themselves against the walls of their own cage.

Everything Is Fine takes a different turn. I filled it with overlapping voices and sounds because sometimes that is what my head feels like: a room full of people all talking at once, none of them listening, all of them insisting. One voice saying everything is fine, another screaming that it’s not, another muttering nonsense, another sobbing in the corner. It’s chaotic, suffocating, and dizzying. But it’s real. The title isn’t reassurance; it’s irony, a mantra repeated until it loses meaning.

By the time we reach I’m Lost, the chaos gives way to fog. This isn’t a storm anymore; it’s disorientation. It’s the feeling of wandering through a landscape you should know, only nothing looks familiar. The compass spins, the map crumbles, the world blurs. It’s the sound of losing your way inside your own mind. There is no direction here, only drifting.

I’m Here is quieter, but not calmer. It’s the shutdown, the moment when words disappear, when I can’t move or respond. I’m in the room, but I’m unreachable. This track holds that strange contradiction: presence without availability. It is both a declaration and an apology. I am here. But I cannot give you what you need from me.

Can You Repeat That? takes a sharp turn into compulsion. It’s structured around the digits of pi, looping and repeating, because OCD isn’t always about visible rituals like washing hands. Sometimes it’s endless numbers. Sometimes it’s the obsessive need to align with something infinite, to find order in a pattern that never ends. It’s restless, relentless, and consuming. This track sounds like a spiral, pulling tighter with each repetition.

Then comes Falling Apart. It’s urgent, breathless, and heavy. This is the sound of panic attacks, the floor dropping beneath you, the air leaving your lungs, the heart racing as though death is imminent. The body sounds alarms even when there’s no visible danger. The track doesn’t allow space to rest—it barrels forward, mirroring the way panic hijacks everything all at once. Nothing is happening, and yet everything is happening.

I Tried is the hardest to talk about. It’s quiet not because it lacks weight, but because it carries too much. It holds the nights when I didn’t think I could keep going, the moments where survival felt like failure, the times I reached for an ending. But it’s also about the mornings that followed, the fragile persistence of still being here. The song doesn’t resolve neatly, because neither did those moments. It doesn’t triumph. It simply exists, exhausted but alive.

I’m Not Here drifts into emptiness. It’s hollow by design, distant and detached, like watching life from underwater. Dissociation is strange like that: you’re present, but you’re not. You see yourself moving, speaking, existing, but it doesn’t feel like you. Even when I made this track, I wasn’t really there. It feels like a ghost writing its own music.

Finally, I Remember; Serenity closes the album with something softer. Where the first track was meant to begin with thunder, this one ends with birdsong. It’s the sun after rain, the fragile calm after the storm. In those sounds, I reach back to a childhood memory: lying on the grass in a jean jacket on a spring day, listening to birds without a trace of anxiety or fear. That memory isn’t whole—it’s more like a fragment of peace, a reminder of what calm could feel like. It’s not that everything is healed. It’s that for a moment, the noise lifts, and I can breathe.

Nothing Is Wrong is what I said to survive. But every note says otherwise. Every track is proof that something was wrong—and that I’m still here. And if you’re still here too, maybe you’ll hear yourself in it.

That’s why I’ve now released I’m Okay; I Remember, a single track that merges the intended beginning and ending. It starts in the bathroom with thunder cracking outside, rain streaking the glass, a tree swaying in the distance—the storm inside made visible. “I’m okay” is the lie we whisper to survive while lightning splits the sky. But storms pass. The song drifts into a local park where birds call, frogs hum in chorus, and a rabbit grazes without hurry. I remember serenity. This piece is both mask and memory stitched together—denial giving way to truth, fracture giving way to stillness. It carries the whole arc of the album: collapse, resistance, and the fragile peace that follows.

Here's the new song: