Chap­ter 22 reflects a trans­for­ma­tive moment in my life, marked by chaos and per­son­al growth. In the months after Jay­den came home, every­thing felt dis­ori­ent­ing. I had to nav­i­gate the after­math of a painful breakup while also adjust­ing to the over­whelm­ing respon­si­bil­i­ties of moth­er­hood. Amidst this, the media cir­cus con­tin­ued, height­en­ing my sense of iso­la­tion. My phys­i­cal appear­ance became a focal point, and in an attempt to regain some con­trol over my life, I found myself deal­ing with a series of hair mishaps—starting with black dye dur­ing preg­nan­cy, then try­ing to bleach it blonde, and even­tu­al­ly requir­ing pro­fes­sion­al help to fix the mess. It felt like every aspect of my life mir­rored this struggle—something was always out of sync, but I kept try­ing to push for­ward. The chaot­ic per­son­al life, com­bined with the relent­less media pres­sure, made it dif­fi­cult to main­tain a sense of self. How­ev­er, one thing that ground­ed me dur­ing this tumul­tuous time was my work. Record­ing for Black­out gave me a sense of free­dom I des­per­ate­ly need­ed, allow­ing me to focus on my cre­ativ­i­ty and musi­cal expres­sion in ways I had­n’t done in years.

Work­ing on Black­out allowed me to tap into a new realm of cre­ativ­i­ty. I was intro­duced to fresh sounds, par­tic­u­lar­ly by the tal­ent­ed pro­duc­er Nate Hills, also known as Dan­ja. He brought a unique blend of dance and EDM influ­ences into the mix, push­ing me to exper­i­ment and expand my musi­cal hori­zons. For the first time in a while, I was not bogged down by the pres­sures of meet­ing expec­ta­tions; I was able to focus sole­ly on the music I want­ed to cre­ate. The envi­ron­ment in the stu­dio was lib­er­at­ing, pro­vid­ing me with the space to express myself freely. The music became my escape, a sanc­tu­ary where I could block out the tur­moil of my per­son­al life. Although every­thing else in my life felt out of con­trol, the stu­dio was where I found my peace. There, I felt like I could be tru­ly myself, with­out the con­straints of the world out­side.

The Black­out album was more than just a project for me—it was a state­ment of inde­pen­dence. After years of being con­trolled, both in my per­son­al and pro­fes­sion­al life, I decid­ed to take mat­ters into my own hands. Instead of adher­ing to the usu­al for­mu­la, I filmed music videos on the streets, with no major pro­duc­tion team involved. One video, “Gimme More,” was par­tic­u­lar­ly infamous—though I wasn’t proud of it, it worked for what it was. The low-bud­get, DIY approach reflect­ed my desire to break free from the expec­ta­tions placed upon me. It may not have been the most pol­ished video, but it res­onat­ed with peo­ple because it was real and raw. The more I stepped out­side the tra­di­tion­al bound­aries of the indus­try, the more I felt like I was reclaim­ing my pow­er. This new­found free­dom allowed me to redis­cov­er the joy of cre­at­ing, even in the midst of every­thing else falling apart.

Record­ing Black­out was, in many ways, a spir­i­tu­al expe­ri­ence. One of the most mem­o­rable moments was record­ing the track “Hot as Ice,” when I found myself sur­round­ed by a group of large men in the stu­dio. Despite their impos­ing pres­ence, there was a sense of calm in the room as I sang, and I reached heights with my voice I hadn’t thought pos­si­ble. It felt effort­less and nat­ur­al, as if the music was guid­ing me to new places with­in myself. The entire record­ing process was cathartic—it was a place where I could ful­ly express myself, free from the judg­ment of oth­ers. For a brief moment, I was able to let go of the con­stant pres­sure and sim­ply focus on the art. It was a reminder of why I start­ed mak­ing music in the first place—to express my feel­ings and con­nect with oth­ers on a deep lev­el. Despite every­thing I was going through, the music was my con­stant, my out­let, and my sal­va­tion.