From Portmore to Purpose: How Music Became My Lifeline

.Growing up in Portmore, Jamaica, wasn’t easy, but it was where the sound of my dreams began to take shape. Our one-room house, packed with my mother, stepfather, and three siblings, was often alive with the booming pulse of reggae, soul, R&B, jazz, and pop music blasting from my stepfather’s sound system. The bass rattled the thin wooden walls, the vibrations tickling my spine and making the floorboards hum. Music wasn’t just a soundtrack to our lives—it was the heartbeat of our home. It became mine, too.

I remember the first time I truly felt the power of music. My stepfather, though loud and often frustrating, had this enormous love for his records. He’d crank up the volume, and the sound waves would flood the house like an unstoppable wave. The heavy baselines of reggae artists would vibrate through the air, thick with energy, while the smooth hum of a soul song would wrap around you like a warm blanket. From the soulful croons of Al Green to the energetic rhythms of Bob Marley, the house was constantly filled with sounds that spanned generations and cultures. At first, I didn’t understand what made these songs so special—but I felt them. I felt how music could stir something inside me, how it could transform a dull, cramped room into a place of freedom.

It wasn’t long before I started to create my own sounds. I couldn’t afford an instrument, but I had my hands and my voice. I remember the rhythm of my pencil tapping on my desk in class, a steady beat that no one else could hear, the wood of the desk vibrating under my fingertips. I’d tap out patterns on whatever was in front of me—paper, the back of my chair, even the walls of the classroom—and close my eyes to listen to the music in my head. The soft scratch of my pencil on the desk was my first instrument. The thumping beats I made would echo in my mind, urging me to create more.

After leaving school, my musical journey took a turn as I branched off on my own. It wasn’t easy stepping away from the comfort of the group, but the desire to carve my own path was undeniable. I began producing my own beats, recording songs in subpar studios, where the equipment felt old and cracked beneath my fingers. The air always smelled of metal and vinyl, and the buzzing of cheap wires filled the spaces between notes. I worked part-time jobs, like at C&M Meats in Mandeville, just to keep the lights on while I focused on music at night. Every rejection, every setback, only made me more determined to keep pushing forward.

High school had been a whirlwind of excitement and possibility, with the formation of Bad Apple taking center stage. We’d gather in classrooms and hallways, our voices rising together in harmony, the echoes of our laughter and music spilling out into the schoolyard. But as we finished school, the group began to dissolve. My friend Rusty drifted away to form a new group called Step Out Crew, and I had to come to terms with the idea of going solo. I found myself standing at a crossroads. It was a lonely place, but it was also the beginning of something new.

One of the hardest moments came when I learned of my friend Rusty’s passing. We had both been part of Bad Apple, and his death hit me like a punch to the gut. It made me realize how fragile life is, how fleeting the moments we think we have are. That loss was a heavy weight on my chest, suffocating, and it took me weeks to shake the sadness. But in that grief, I found my purpose. My music became my outlet, a way to honor him and channel the pain into something beautiful. It was as if the loss had ignited a new fire within me. I wrote "When Mi Gone," and it poured out of me like a river. Each line carried the weight of my grief, yet there was a catharsis in every note. The song resonated deeply with me and those around me. It marked a turning point in my journey, a moment of profound growth as an artist and as a person.

Passing my exams and moving to Edna Manley College in Kingston was another defining moment. As I packed my bags for the city, I felt a mix of excitement and terror. This was my chance to break into the wider music scene—but was I ready? Could I actually make it in Kingston, away from the comfort of my family and the free studio time I had grown so accustomed to? Despite the fear, I knew this was a step I had to take.

At Edna Manley, I was met with both excitement and pressure. But financial struggles loomed large, and I eventually made the difficult decision to drop out. A brief connection with producer NotNice didn’t lead anywhere, and I found myself back in Mandeville in October 2013, with nothing but my will to succeed and a job at C&M Meats to support myself. That job didn’t stop me, though—it was a means to an end. I spent my nights producing beats, working harder than ever to make my dreams a reality.

Looking back on those early days in Portmore, I see now that music was more than just a passion—it was the key to unlocking a future I could only dream of. It gave me a voice when I had none, and it taught me how to turn hardship into strength. Music became my lifeline, and it’s that same lifeline that keeps me moving forward.

What I’ve Learned

The road I’ve walked hasn’t been easy, but it’s been mine. Through the ups and downs, the challenges and the triumphs, I’ve learned one thing for certain: no matter where you come from, no matter how small the space you start in, your dreams are valid. With passion and perseverance, you can turn your struggles into strength. You can create a future that reflects the fire inside of you.

So, if you’re out there feeling like the world is against you, just know that music—or any passion—can be the anchor that keeps you grounded. It can help you rise, regardless of the obstacles. You have everything you need within you. All you have to do is believe and keep creating. And remember, the journey’s far from over—and it’s one I’m ready to continue, with no limits in sight.