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While writing *"I Remember"*, it was never just a tune—it acted as a doorway to memories buried in time. Every word transported me to old friends, long gone, and to the joy of those years.
*"I Remember"* is a kind of time travel. Not just the good times, but the full landscape: the tears and the breakthroughs. It holds the the loss of my brother.
The melody is a thread that ties me to my wairua. And in singing it, I bring them back into the now.
That's why I became an artist. Not chasing prestige, but because my hands needed to speak. Trauma, memory, identity—they needed space. And that's what sculpture became: a still, silent prayer.
Sculpture taught me patience. Unlike a fleeting moment, form stays. I learned to sculpt story, to take what was fractured and make it visible. Each sculpture is a way of saying: *I survived this, and I remember*.
My creative journey isn't about perfection. It's about connection. I switch between forms like the tides move—inevitable, rhythmic, necessary. 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 phrase 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 bridge forward.
When I sing it, I think of the way my people carried me. I think of the hands that helped me up.
I remember.
And in doing so,
I live.
So when you hear the song, 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.