I Wrote This When I Didn’t Know Who I Was: Inside Tree Fall

I’ve spent a lot of my life being “the strong one.”

The one who holds it down.

The one who makes the plan.

The one who keeps the jokes coming so nobody notices the shaking underneath.

And if you’ve ever lived like that, you already know the quiet truth:

You can look put-together…

and still be collapsing privately.

This project was born right there.

In that invisible freefall.

These songs aren’t just songs to me.

They’re documents.

Receipts from nights I didn’t think I’d survive emotionally and mornings where I did anyway.

At its core, this album is about identity, purpose, and mental health.

But not in a tidy, inspirational-poster way.

In the way that feels like:

Who am I when I’m not performing?

What am I here for when I don’t even want to be here?

How do I keep carrying people when I can’t carry myself?

This is the review of the project, in the exact order the story unfolds.

“IDK” — The confession

“I don’t know” is a simple sentence.

But when you say it enough times, it becomes a prayer.

This is the track where I stop pretending I have answers.

The hook loops like a mind that can’t settle:

“I don’t know… I don’t know what I’m doing… can you help me out”

And that’s really what this whole project is.

A flare shot into the dark.

“IDK” lives in the tension between independence and desperation.

I’m talking about betting on myself and getting nothing back.

About trying affirmations, meditation, scripture—anything that might glue me together.

And then admitting the thing that bruises the ego:

“I just want to be without anyone’s help / But it’s hard to please without anyone else”

That line is the doorway into the album.

Because behind all the fighting, all the jokes, all the “I got it”—

there’s a human being asking:

Can somebody hold me for a second?

Just long enough for me to remember I’m not a machine.

And when I say:

“Had a girl give me her heart / I gave it back in a napkin”

…I’m not trying to be cool.

I’m exposing how numb “strong” can make you.

Sometimes you push love away not because you don’t want it—

but because you don’t trust your hands to hold anything delicate.

“IDK” is me admitting I’m lost.

And weirdly… that’s where the honesty starts to feel like freedom.

“Faces” — The mirror

This song is me looking at my life like it’s a lineup of versions.

Different voices.

Different masks.

Different survival strategies.

And underneath all of it, the question that won’t shut up:

“Which one is my own?”

“Faces” carries history.

It starts with the past, but it’s really about the present—

the cost of adapting so much you forget what “real” even feels like.

“Looking in the mirror / yelling ‘Who the hell is this?’”

That’s the moment.

Because at some point, you can’t keep performing your way through pain.

At some point, the mask doesn’t fit anymore.

And then the repetition comes in—fronting, fronting, fronting—

like I’m calling myself out and also forgiving myself in the same breath.

Because fronting isn’t always vanity.

Sometimes it’s protection.

And still… protection can become a prison.

When I say:

“All I do is adapt / Hard to keep intact / when you falling all apart”

…I’m admitting the double life.

The one where people see confidence and competence

and inside, it’s panic.

Inside, it’s exhaustion.

Inside, it’s the quiet fear that I’m not even a person anymore

just responses.

“Faces” is identity grief.

Mourning the self I might’ve been if I didn’t have to be tough so early.

“30 & Broke” — The small victories

This song is a snapshot of depression that doesn’t need metaphors.

It’s not glam.

It’s not poetic for the sake of poetry.

It’s real life.

And the genius of it is the contrast:

how the smallest act—making the bed—can feel like winning a war.

“I made my bed today… I never thought I’d make my bed today”

That repetition is survival language.

Because when you’re drowning, you don’t celebrate big dreams.

You celebrate breathing.

You celebrate standing up.

You celebrate doing one normal thing.

But the track doesn’t pretend that small wins erase the heaviness.

It goes there:

numbness

hopelessness

the feeling that nothing changes

the temptation to disappear

And then the hook splits into two realities:

one where I can still try…

and one where I can’t.

That’s what mental health is like sometimes.

Not a straight line.

Two parallel lives in the same body.

And maybe the rawest truth in this track is this:

Even when I want to end it… I wake up again.

Even when I feel like a failure… I’m still here.

That’s not weakness.

That’s a pulse.

That’s proof.

“30 & Broke” is the sound of holding on without romanticizing it.

It’s messy.

It’s tender.

It’s honest.

“Have A Nice Day” — The smile and the bitterness

This track is where the album’s dark humor sharpens into a blade.

It starts with a punchline:

“Life is but a movie / where everybody dies… Everybody wants trust / yet everybody lies”

This is the part of the project where I stop trying to be “likable.”

Because sometimes pain makes you polite.

And sometimes pain makes you tell the truth with your teeth showing.

There’s a spiritual exhaustion in this song:

“Every night I pray to a God I don’t believe in”

That’s such a specific kind of emptiness.

Not atheism.

Not faith.

Just desperation.

Just habit.

Just reaching for something because you don’t know where else to put your fear.

And the chorus is a boundary disguised as a dismissal:

“Get the fuck out / hope you have a nice day”

It’s angry, yeah.

But underneath the anger is grief.

Because if you listen closely, this isn’t about hating people.

It’s about what it feels like when no one stays.

When you keep trying, keep messing up, keep feeling like everybody else got the manual for being human—and you didn’t.

The sarcasm.

The rage.

The “I don’t care.”

But armor always forms around something soft.

This track is proof there’s still something in me that wants to be loved—

even if it doesn’t know how to ask for it anymore.

“Go” — The reclaiming

After all the spiraling,

all the mirror-talk,

all the numbness and bitterness

“Go” is the first real breath

It begins with the same trapped feeling that haunts the whole project:

“I’ve been stuck / waiting in line for a long time… in the search for peace of mind / I think I might have lost mine”

Always waiting your turn to fall apart.

Always telling yourself, later.

Later I’ll rest.

Later I’ll feel.

Later I’ll heal.

“Something in my soul is telling me that I gotta go”

And suddenly, it’s motion.

It’s wind.

It’s windows down and volume up

not as escape

rebellion.

There’s a line in here that feels like the album’s thesis statement:

“Done playing safe / I don’t care what’s not allowed / No time to waste / it’s my life / I’m livin’ now”

That’s a decision.

Not “I’m healed.”

Not “I’m fine.”

Just

I’m choosing myself.

“Go” is the first act of self-rescue.

It’s the part where the tree falls… and instead of dying, it makes space for sunlight.

The album as a whole: identity, purpose, and the quiet collapse

If I had to summarize this album in one sentence, it would be:

I was holding everything together for everyone else…

while silently falling apart inside.

This project is the sound of that private fall becoming public art.

It moves like a mental health journey actually moves:

confusion (“IDK”)

identity fragmentation (“Faces”)

depression and survival (“30 & Broke”)

defensive anger and disillusionment (“Have A Nice Day”)

and finally, motion—choosing life again (“Go”)

Not a perfect arc.

A real one.

And the thing I’m proudest of?

It doesn’t pretend strength means you don’t hurt.

It shows strength as what it really is:

hurting… and still showing up.

Let’s make this bigger than me

If this album touched something in you, don’t keep it quiet.

I want to hear from you

Seriously

Tell me in the comments (or message me):

Which track felt like it was reading your mind?

What lyric hit you the hardest?

What “face” are you tired of wearing right now?

What does “go” mean in your life—what are you trying to finally choose?

And if you know someone who’s always “the strong one”…

the one who laughs a lot but looks tired in the eyes…

send them this project.

Not to save them.

Just to remind them they’re not alone.

Because your story matters.

And mine does too.

And when we stop pretending, we don’t just heal ourselves

we build a place where other people can breathe.

Til next time

🫡❤️‍🔥🩵🤍💜