It didn’t start with me

If I’m going to tell my story,

it doesn’t start with me.

It starts with them: my mom and dad

Before I had language for resilience,

before I understood sacrifice,

before I knew what it meant to keep going when things didn’t make sense

I was watching it play out in real time.

In my parents.

They didn’t just talk about faith.

They lived it.

And not in the polished, easy-to-share kind of way.

The kind that costs you something.

I grew up watching obedience that didn’t always come with clarity.

They didn’t always know how things would work out.

They didn’t always have the resources.

They didn’t always have the support.

But they moved anyway.

There’s something different about that kind of faith—

the kind that isn’t dependent on comfort

or validation

or guaranteed outcomes.

The kind that says yes…

even when it would be easier to say no.

And it wasn’t loud.

It was shown in heartache,

in tears that didn’t have answers,

and in prayers sown anyway.

Not the kind people post about.

Not the kind that gets recognition.

The kind that happens behind closed doors—

when no one is watching,

and you choose to believe anyway.

I didn’t fully understand it at the time.

When you’re in it, it just feels like life.

Normal.

Expected.

It isn’t until later—

when you’re faced with your own decisions,

your own pressure,

your own moments of “this could cost me more than I want to give”

that you realize what you were actually being shown.

Not perfection.

Pattern.

They showed me what it looks like to:

Keep your word.

Do the work.

Stand firm when it would be easier to fold.

And answer the call on your life—even when it disrupts everything.

Even when it costs almost everything.

There’s a quiet strength in that.

Not loud.

Not performative.

Not looking for recognition.

Just consistent.

Steady.

Unshaken.

The kind of strength that doesn’t need to announce itself

because it shows up, over and over again.

A lot of what I carry—

the way I think,

the way I move,

the way I push through tension instead of running from it—

didn’t start with me.

It was modeled.

Passed down in decisions.

In discipline.

In moments no one else saw.

If you want to understand me—

my drive,

my resilience,

my refusal to quit halfway through something—

you have to understand them.

Because I am, in many ways,

a continuation of what they started.

And maybe that’s what legacy really is.

Not what you say.

Not what you claim.

But what you consistently live

long enough for someone else to carry forward.

If I’m going to tell my story,

it starts with them.

And everything I build from here

is, in some way,

a response to what they showed me.

Some stories don’t fully fit on a page.

Some things are better felt than explained.

So I didn’t just write this.

I turned it into something more.

Two songs—

rooted in what they lived,

what they carried,

and what they passed down without ever needing recognition.

This is where the story continues...

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Basslines & Baselines: My Hybrid Music‑Tech Workflow

Pulling the curtain back a little on my creative process…

Most of what I create—whether it’s a song, a blog, or even a quick line that turns into something bigger—starts in the same place: tension.

Not everything I’m processing has a name. Not everything is meant to be explained. And honestly, not everything is meant to be shared in full.

But creativity has become the space where I can translate what I can hold into something tangible.

Some pieces are raw.

Some are refined.

Some are just fragments that helped me breathe for a minute.

There’s a difference between being transparent and being.

What you’re seeing now is me taking ownership of my voice, my process, and what I create.

For a long time, I filtered it.

Second-guessed it.

Waited for the “right” time, the “right” version, the “right” permission.

Not anymore.

Ownership looks like showing up before it’s perfect.  

It looks like creating without over-explaining.  

It looks like trusting that what’s on me to say will land where it’s supposed to.

It also means I get to decide what I share—and what I don’t.

This space I’m in right now?

It’s honest.

It’s intentional.

And it’s mine.

No permission needed.

Just alignment.

Just obedience.

Just truth.

Setting the record straight

I’ll be honest—I think it’s both a little ridiculous and somewhat amusing that I even have to write this.

But I also know, from experience, how damaging rumors can be.

They’re not harmless. They don’t just pass through and disappear. They can shape narratives, impact relationships, and leave a lasting imprint long after the moment has passed. I’ve lived that reality before—much earlier in my life—and I know how long it can take to untangle yourself from something that was never true to begin with.

So while I’d prefer not to give this any attention, I also won’t ignore something that has the potential to be hurtful.

My husband and I are not separating. We are not getting a divorce.

I understand why the timing may seem peculiar. The sequence of events—and the order in which things have unfolded—may have created space for assumptions. Around the same time, I made a decision to be more transparent as I rolled out my album and the creative work tied to it. But my creative work is about my life’s journey told from my perspective. 

Transparency in my creative expression should not be mistaken for an open window into every part of my life.

There are boundaries.

What I share through writing and music is mine to process, translate, and release. But let me make this “publicly” clear, I do not and will not pull back the curtain on my marriage as a singular decision. 

This season has required more from us—individually and together—but it has also grounded us in what matters most. I’m already identifying how God is orchestrating this season in our lives. I don’t know the road ahead but I don’t need to, I know who holds it for us. 

Out of complete respect for my husband, I am not his voice. He deserves the autonomy to decide what he shares and what he does not. And if we ever chose to open that door—to share more of our story—it would be a mutual decision, made together, and told together.

Marriage isn’t built in public.

And ours won’t be explained there either.

We are still here. Still committed. Still moving forward—together.

~ Louda

She will come running

A while back, I created a 90’s Christian music playlist…
but never really played it.

Until last week.

Traveling.
I needed something familiar.
Something I could sing along to.
Something that would keep me alert.

And then I remembered—
the playlist.

---

Very nostalgic: felt like stepping back into my young adult life.

Those songs carry so many memories.

Travel.
Youth camps.
Events.
Family trips.
Church life.

Leadership.

Friendships.

Formative years—
filled with firsts.

First trip without my parents.
First long drives with friends.
First real sense of navigating the world on my own.

I miss that version of wide-eye wonderment.

The kind that shows up on the road—
with a stack of CDs
and no real sense of where life is going…
but full confidence you’ll figure it out.

---

There were a lot of good memories.

…but also some I don’t care to revisit.

First betrayals.
First realizations that people aren’t always who they present themselves to be.
First disappointments.

And a lot of first mistakes.

There are things I might have done differently.

But those experiences shaped how I see the world.

In some ways—
I’ve spent years deconstructing some of that framework.

That’s part of maturity.

---

The summer I turned 18—
every trip included at least one full play through
of the Jars of Clay debut album.

We almost booked them for Congreso.

Missed them by days.

To this day, I still catch myself calling them “Earthen Vessels.” (Story there - Listen to Blind on that album around the 6:30 marker)

Some things just stick.

That album became more than background music.

It shaped direction.

It’s what led me into playing in a band.
Developing my musicianship.
Investing in tools I never imagined I’d own.

And stepping into something that, at the time,
felt like endless opportunity.

And the truth is—
that growth never stopped.

It just changed form.

---

I’ve never been okay with the status quo.

There’s always been a pull to be better.
Do better.
Learn more.

That hasn’t changed.

But 2024 going into 2025 felt different.

I felt… stale.

Stuck.

Like I had quietly started waiting
instead of moving.

And somewhere in that realization—
one truth became clear:

If you want to reap,
you have to sow.

And if I didn’t like where I was—
it was my responsibility to change it.

---

Pursuing a doctoral degree has always been part of the plan.

People ask, “Why now?”

Because now makes sense.

I’ve been looking at programs for years.

But I’ve also learned something about myself:

I don’t move just because something is available.

I move when it’s aligned.

And this time—
it aligned.

But before that…
I had to get honest.

I had the academic foundation.
But there was still hesitation.

Not about capability—
about confidence.

So I did what I’ve always done.

Closed the gap.

Applied to a master’s program.
Started.
Finishing.
And positioned myself for what comes next.

And once again—
everything moved fast.

Applied.
Accepted.
Started within weeks.

That’s been a pattern in my life.

Preparation takes time.

But when God moves—
it moves quickly.

Hands Open

I think the creative floodgates have swung wide open.

New blogs.

New lyrics.

New hooks.

My brain has been firing on all cylinders.

It’s how I process what I can’t control.

There’s something about writing—about translating what’s internal into something tangible—that’s been deeply cathartic. My day-to-day work is cerebral… translational, integrative, mentally load-bearing. Constantly thinking, solving, carrying.

But creativity?

It lets me off-load.

It gives me somewhere to put what I’ve been holding.

That’s why I take long drives too.

No noise. No expectations. Just space to process whatever I’m carrying in that moment.

This might sound like I don’t know how to lay my burdens at Jesus’ feet.

That’s not the issue.

It’s not the laying down.

It’s the leaving them there.