By nineteen, I had finally saved just enough to purchase a second-hand microphone and a simple digital audio interface.

I spent my late evenings recording rough demos in my tiny bedroom, hanging thick blankets over the walls to deaden the echo.

One night, Dad kicked my bedroom door open and glared at me.

“Turn that noise down immediately because I have to wake up early for work tomorrow.”

“I am almost finished with this vocal track,” I argued, keeping my hands on the recording equipment.

“I said turn it down right now,” he repeated sternly.