Some people write their story in journals.
I’ve always written mine in music.

I was born in Havana, Cuba, in a grand house built by my maternal grandfather — a home where music wasn’t just sound, but a living presence. Mornings began with birds singing through open windows, and nights ended with my grandfather reciting poems and lullabies as I curled up on his lap. Those were the first moments that taught me that a voice could hold tenderness, truth, and magic.

My father’s record player brought the world to our living room. Through its crackling speakers, Christopher Cross’s Sailing carried me across imaginary oceans, Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake unfolded into ballets in my mind, and the soulful voice of Bola de Nieve — especially his haunting rendition of Drume Negrita — wrapped my childhood in nostalgia and emotion. Even as a child, I recognized something profound in him, something that reminded me of Louis Armstrong: artists whose talent broke barriers and whose voices carried entire histories.

My mother was my first image of elegance — always graceful, always radiant, stepping out of the house as if she were walking onto a set of old Hollywood. She taught me charisma without words, style without ego, and the joy of expressing myself freely. Together, we sang through the hallways, experimented with harmonies, laughed through imperfect melodies. I didn’t know it then, but those playful moments became the foundation of my artistic life.

This was the beginning of my soundtrack — a childhood stitched together by music, imagination, and legacy.