Why I sing to my furniture

I’ve loved singing since I was a tiny tot. The hairbrush microphone, bedroom door closed, fully committed to the performance but very shy and quiet at school kind of kid. Yes. That was me.

I also used to write little songs when I was young. Nothing fancy. Just feelings and melodies and dramatic choruses about my pets or what was happening at school. Around 11, I picked up my mom’s old nylon-string 1970's acoustic guitar and started plucking around. No real training. No idea what I was doing. Did it sound good? That's debatable. But I was hooked.

When I was 13, I started taking guitar lessons at the Fender Guitar Museum in Corona, California. I actually learned chords. I joined a kids’ rock band called The Fender Benders, and we toured around the Inland Empire playing little shows. It was chaotic and loud and so much fun. For a while, I truly believed I might be a rock star who likes to go to bed by 8:30 pm.

That season built a lot of confidence in me.

In college at San Diego State, I taught myself how to use a recording program on my laptop and recorded an entire album in my dorm room. I had actual CDs printed. I was committed. It was very early-2000s indie singer-songwriter energy.

And yet, through all of it, there was always this voice in my head:

You’re not that good. You don’t sound professional. Focus on your day job that actually pays. Be realistic.

So my relationship with music became this on-again, off-again thing. I’d get inspired, write a bunch of songs, play open mics, maybe record something. Then I’d spiral. I’d convince myself I wasn’t good enough. I’d put the guitar away for months, sometimes years.

Right before COVID in 2020, I started playing open mics again. I felt that spark coming back. Then everything shut down. No more open mics. No more stages.

So I just kept playing at home.

During that time, I took virtual voice lessons for the first time in my life. I finally learned how to actually breathe and sing. And something shifted. Music felt less like performance and more like expression.

But here’s the funny thing: even when I wasn’t “actively pursuing music,” it was always there.

I’d weave it into my day jobs. I’d sing at business conferences. Write silly training songs. Sometimes even sing to customers. (Yes, really.) It sounds ridiculous, but music has always been how I process things. How I connect. How I make something heavy feel lighter.

In my 30s, I briefly lived on the East Coast and played open mics at World Cafe Live in Philly. The guy who ran it, his name was Boy Wonder, liked my sound and asked me to join a little local circuit. I played bars and restaurants around the city. I played for tips. I played my 30th birthday gig at a bar on South Street. I even had a weekend winery gig in New Jersey.

At one point, I recorded an album through a Groupon at a studio that doubled as a space training facility. Because of course I did. Music has taken me to the weirdest, most wonderful places. And still, I would put it down. Pick it up. Put it down again.

Then something happened.

I got laid off. I started flipping furniture. I began rescuing pieces from the curb that nobody wanted anymore. And it felt healing.

There’s something about sanding down old layers. About seeing potential where other people see junk. About giving something a second chance. Music feels the same way to me.

So one day, in between sanding and staining and waiting for coats to dry, I picked up my guitar in the garage and started singing. To the furniture. About the furniture. About second chances. About following what lights you up. And I didn’t overthink it. I just did it.

Now I write little songs while I work. I sing in my garage. My neighbors can absolutely hear me through the alley. Sometimes I hit the wrong note. Sometimes it’s cheesy. Sometimes it’s dramatic for no reason. And I still do it.

Because music is part of me. Not the polished, perfect, professional version. The real one. The kid-with-the-hairbrush one. The dorm-room-recording one. The Philly-bar-gig one. The laid-off-and-figuring-it-out one. So yes, I sing to my furniture.

Not because I think I’m the next big thing. Not because it’s strategic. Not because it’s polished.

But because it feels good. Because it’s honest. Because there's an actual energy of music that's healing for furniture and humans. Because also, it's just so fun. Because it reminds me that I don’t have to be perfect to create something meaningful. And if my rocking chair gets a little serenade along the way? Even better.

If you want to hear some of my furniture songs, check them out on YouTube: