I grew up chasing sound. Anything that carried a melody or rhythm pulled me in. From old guitars passed around by friends to the songs drifting from the radio late at night, music was always the thread that stitched my life together. It wasn’t about lessons or rules back then. It was about feeling something and trying to make it my own.
As the years went on, I found myself on stages big and small. Some nights were electric, with crowds leaning into every word. Other nights were quiet, almost like I was just singing to myself. Those moments, both the loud and the hushed, shaped me. Music taught me patience, humility, and the strange beauty of connection—you never really know who a song might reach.
But life has its shadows. For a long stretch, alcohol was my escape and my anchor, often at the same time. It took me years to realize how much space it was taking up, how much of myself it was stealing. Some of my music reflects that struggle—the fight to hold on, the temptation to let go, and the hope that maybe tomorrow could be better.
Stepping away from that life gave me a new perspective. I learned to value clarity over chaos, stillness over noise. Music became less about chasing a dream and more about telling the truth. When I sing now, it’s not to impress or to prove anything—it’s simply to mark where I’ve been and to remind myself that every day forward is a choice.
I can’t explain exactly why I walked away from the business side of it all. Maybe I didn’t want to live in the same places that nearly broke me. Maybe I just wanted to let the songs I had stand as they are, without the weight of expectation. What I do know is this: the music is still there, and so am I.
—Jobe Rose