The first time I played piano for an audience, my hands shook so badly the keys blurred. I was twelve, barefoot on a wobbly stool in a Montana church basement, wearing my mom’s too-big dress. I didn’t finish the piece. I ran offstage crying. But last week, in a packed LA club drenched in strobe light, I played the same song—this time with blood smeared across the keys and a smile on my face. That’s who I am now: the girl who turned fear into fire. You were there that night. You saw me. And when I locked eyes with you in the back row, something cracked open. Not just the performance. Me.