From Shy Girl to Fangirl Hustler: How Music (and My Mom) Changed Everything

If you met me today, you’d probably think I’ve always been a loud, opinionated, slightly unhinged multitasking woman.

But the truth? I was so shy as a kid. Like, hiding-behind-my-mom-at-birthday-parties kind of shy. Talking to strangers? Forget it. I barely talked to people I knew.

My entire personality back then was made of three things: A Series of Unfortunate Events books, listening to music on my Dad’s iPod shuffle and Barbie dolls. Mute, lost in my own world. Not ideal in a school of fifty kids you can’t escape.

Eventually, my mom snapped out of her denial and was like, “Nope. This ain’t it.” So she signed me up for Girl Scouts. And like clockwork, everything changed.

Suddenly I had to sell things. Talk to people. Volunteer next to older girls who seemed like they owned the universe. Oh – and I discovered public speaking was a thing you could do for patches. I was in it for the patches.

And just like that, I became a joiner. A try-hard. A chaotic overachiever. Choir, drama club, skiing, swimming, tennis, lacrosse, student council, honor societies – I collected extracurriculars like they were Pokémon cards. The more I did, the more I felt like me.

But here’s the part no one talks about: when you’re a high-achieving girl in a small town, people will come for you. I got bullied. Relentlessly. For the way I looked, the things I believed in, how much I cared. Apparently, being “too much” was a crime.

At one point, I was deep in self-deprecation. Like, crying myself to sleep bad. But through all of it, I had one thing: activities. If I kept busy, I didn’t have time to spiral. I didn’t have time to listen to people who clearly didn’t know how to mind their business.

Eventually, my mom sat me down, looked me in the eye, and said the most seminal (and slightly problematic) thing ever:

“Here’s what you’re gonna say to those bitches: leave me the fuck alone.”

Did I mention I was 14?

Wild parenting move—but honestly, it worked. I started standing up for myself. I got a little scary. A little unpredictable. The bullies backed off. And more importantly, I got hungry. For success. For independence. For something bigger than my tiny town.

So I worked. I mean, really worked. Four jobs in high school. A stacked resume of clubs, sports, performances, and internships. I was going to prove that all of it—the bullying, the burnout, the chaos – meant something.

And guess what? It did. I got into my dream school, NYU Clive Davis Institute, on a full ride. The shy girl turned theatre kid turned overworked multitasker. And suddenly, people had nothing left to say—except “How did you do that?”

Simple: I stayed busy, stayed focused, and didn’t let other people write my story.

And somewhere along the way? Music stopped being just a background noise, I fell in love with music. Not just singing it. Understanding it. Managing it. Designing for it. Living in it. I went from being in the choir to being obsessed with the engine behind the stage—production, marketing, strategy, and storytelling. Choir introduced me to the power of performance, but it was the fangirl life that made me obsessed.

You know the kind: making Spotify playlists like they’re love letters. Stalking unreleased tracks. Watching obscure interviews on 240p YouTube. I lived for it. But I didn’t just want to watch the music world – I wanted in.

In my sophomore year of college, I secured an artist and partner relations consultant job at Indify. I started working with them, and suddenly I was on the inside. If you don’t know Indify, it’s a platform that helps artists stay independent while connecting them with resources, funding, and partnerships. Basically: a dream tool for artists trying to grow without giving up control.

At Indify, I get to see the way artists build from the ground up—how they release, market, and own their work. I’m not just learning the business of music. I am watching the next generation of artists take control of their careers—and realising I want to help build that future.

Through my work with Clive Live – our in-house live music concert series – I’ve been able to directly support artist showcases, interview rising talent, and help shape the student-led creative vision at the Clive Davis Institute. It’s shown me what happens when passion meets platform: real momentum.

It felt like all my passions collided: music, strategy, storytelling, design, hustle. I went from fangirl to contributor. From someone who worshipped music to someone who could support the people behind it.

Now, I’m somewhere between that little Girl Scout and the boss I’m becoming. I still obsess over new drops and emerging artists. I still dream of creative projects that combine music, tech, and fandom in ways we haven’t seen yet. But now, I know how to make things happen.

Currently, I’m channelling everything I’ve learned – through the fangirl deep dives, the internships, Clive Live, songwriting sessions, choir performances, and platforms like Indify – into building a music curation profile that champions independent artists. I want to be more than a listener; I want to be a bridge. A voice that uplifts emerging talent and helps people discover the next wave before the algorithm does. Whether it’s through playlists, write-ups, or visual storytelling, my goal is to spotlight the artists who are doing it on their own terms – because I know what it feels like to build from scratch, to be underestimated, and to still show up hungry. If I can help even one artist feel seen or heard, that’s everything.

My mom may have helped me find my voice, but I’m the one using it now. Loudly. In music meetings. In marketing plans. In every late-night brainstorm and classroom.

And if anyone tries to stop me?

You already know what I’ll say:

Leave me the fuck alone.