Some songs are written. Others just surface — like something the tide left behind when the water finally pulled back far enough.
Low Tide started with a feeling I couldn’t name. Not sadness exactly. More like the strange clarity that comes when you stop resisting what hurts and just… look at it. The way a beach at low tide reveals everything that’s usually hidden — rocks, shells, things that sank a long time ago.
I’d been carrying a lot of unfinished things. Conversations that never got their ending. Feelings I kept trying to water back to life even though they’d already turned to ash. There’s a line in the song: “I keep watering the ashes, hoping something green will grow.” That line came first. Before the melody, before the structure — just that image, sitting in a notebook for weeks.
The Ocean as Metaphor
The entire song lives inside one metaphor: the tide. It comes, it goes, and it doesn’t ask for your permission. That’s what grief does — and that’s what letting go does. You don’t choose the moment. It chooses you.
The chorus kept evolving. At first, it was more defeated — about losing. But as I lived with the song, it shifted. “I’m letting go without a fight” isn’t giving up. It’s the opposite. It’s choosing not to grip something so tightly that it destroys your hands.
The Bridge
The bridge is the heart of the song for me:
Maybe grief is just devotion with nowhere left to land, maybe love is just the courage to release it from your hands.
That thought changed something in me. The idea that grief isn’t the opposite of love — it’s love with no place to go. And that real love might mean being strong enough to open your hands and let it move on.
The Final Chorus
The original chorus ends with “watching what I loved keep going.” But the final chorus changes the last two lines: “I don’t need to feel alright — I just need to keep the ocean.”
That shift was everything. It’s not about being okay. It’s about keeping the capacity to feel. Keeping the ocean — the depth, the movement, the risk of drowning — rather than building walls against it.
Low Tide as a Sound
Musically, I wanted the song to breathe like water. Deep, unhurried bass. Textures that shimmer and recede. A groove that feels like it’s pulling you somewhere you didn’t plan to go. The production mirrors the lyrics: things surface, disappear, return in different forms.
Low Tide is out on May 1, 2026 — on all streaming platforms.
If this song finds you at the right moment, I hope it does what music is supposed to do: make you feel less alone in whatever you’re carrying.
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