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Anyone on this site When I wrote *"I Remember"*, it was never just a tune—it acted as a doorway to the parts of my past I still carry. Each verse transported me to my whānau, and to the scars of those years. *"I Remember"* is a musical act of remembering. Not just the easy moments, but everything: the chaos and the calm. It captures the the loss of my brother. This piece is a sacred echo that ties me to my roots. And in singing it, I give breath to those who shaped me. That's how I became an artist. Not chasing prestige, but because the silence inside me needed form. Healing required expression. And that's what sculpture became: a conversation with the past. Sculpture taught me patience. Unlike a fleeting moment, stone and wood don't lie. I learned to sculpt story, to take what was fractured and give it breath. Each sculpture is a way of saying: *I survived this, and I remember*. The way I live now isn't about perfection. It's about connection. Different mediums, same truth. When I can't carve, I sing. When I can't sing, I write. And when all I can do is breathe and be still—I listen. That, too, is art. There's a whakataukī that anchors me through it all: **"Because of you, I am; and because of me, you are."** That's what *"I Remember"* means to me. It's not only mine—it's a whisper to those who walked before. When I sing it, I think of the quiet strength of my mother. I think of my daughter, my friends, the land. I remember. And in doing so, I live. So if you ever listen, you're not just hearing me—you're hearing my journey. It's not performance—it's a return. A healing. A remembering. And that's what my art is always trying to do. image source | 