For years, I was my own harshest critic and my most dedicated antagonist. I bided my time, waiting for a “perfect” version of myself to arrive—someone thinner, more certain, more healed—before I’d allow myself to actually live. I treated my life like a dress rehearsal for a show that never opened.
Versions of Us is the record of what happens when the ceasefire finally begins. It is the decision to stop negotiating with my insecurities and start documenting the “Director’s Cut” of my life—the raw, unedited, and beautiful parts that don’t make the highlight reel.
I’m a middle-of-the-night jotter, a slow work-in-progress, and a woman learning to finally be proud of the girl I used to hide. Welcome to the journey of coming out of the shadows.
I chose the name Versions of Us because none of us are just one thing. We are a collection of every person we have ever been: the scared ten-year-old, the reckless twenty-year-old, and the person we are becoming this very second. I’m tired of trying to pick just one version to show the world. Here, they are all invited to the table.
While this space is about the big truths, here are the small ones that make me, me:
If you see strength in these words, it’s because I was raised by it. My mother is the living embodiment of a single mom who works too hard, but she did it with a grace that never felt like a sacrifice. She taught me the duality of a well-lived life: how to balance the pragmatism of managing my finances with the radical, soul-deep art of living for myself instead of for the expectations of others.
The weight of a sleeping dog against my back, the steam rising from a mug of Earl Grey, and the silence of a warm, sunny afternoon. It is the ritual of opening the curtains to let the light spill across the room. These are the simple, unscripted anchors—the things that don’t need to be “perfect” to be completely whole.
I am most myself at 10 PM. It’s the hour when the noise of the “hustle” finally retreats, leaving a sudden, hollow quiet. In that space, the superficial thoughts of the day exit, and the deeper truths about my life rush in. It’s often my most uncomfortable hour, but it’s also my most honest.
There is a specific kind of honesty in Aurora’s music that mirrors the philosophy of this space. It is soaring yet grounded, much like the process of uncovering the “Actual Self” beneath years of editing. It is a soundtrack for returning to the earth and the self, a rhythmic ceasefire: raw, primal, and deeply human.
