The final morning of 2025, I woke up before the city did. Just me and the low hormonal growl of a garbage truck purring outside my window like a hungry house cat’s insatiable morning maw.

San Francisco was still holding its breath. The fog hadn’t decided whether it was coming or going yet, so it just hovered, indecisive, like it always does at this hour. I stared out the window in Maria Carey Christmas socks, a questionable ROI which has recently entered cross examination by the smell. No idea how long I’ve been holding a mug of mushroom coffee that had already gone lukewarm, and tried my damndest not to narrate any of it in my head.

My guitar was leaning against the chair where I left it last night. Same small nick on the side of the neck that I always forget about until my thumb finds it. Same slightly sticky G string that needs changing but hasn’t earned that privilege yet. I picked it up without any intention of writing anything and played the chorus of a song that didn’t exist six months ago.

That’s how most of the good ones start for me. Not as ideas. As muscle memory I haven’t earned yet.

A few weeks ago, everything in me felt tight. Like if I stopped moving, the whole thing would collapse. So I kept moving. Emails. Posts. Updates. Gratitude written at 1 a.m. with a pen I only use when I’m tired enough to be my most honest. The one that bleeds just a little if I press too hard. Then the campaign crossed the line.

Quietly and suddenly.

Like something slipping in the final puzzle piece while you’re not looking.

And almost immediately after that, I remembered that my grandmother died less than a week ago, the day after Christmas.

She was my first audience. The kind who doesn’t clap because it’s good, but because you’re you. The kind who thinks everything you make is important simply because you made it. I haven’t written much about her, mostly because every time I try, the words either feel too dramatic or not enough. So for now, I’ll just say this: she would’ve loved that this record is happening.

She thought I walked on water. There was a time when that was hard to hear, but now I love her for it.

Unconditional.

There’s grief in the room now. But it’s not loud. It’s more like a chair that didn’t used to be empty.

What surprised me is that alongside it, something else showed up.

A creative spark.

Not the kind you schedule.

The kind that sneaks in unnoticed like a curiously important plus one.

Songs have been coming back the way they used to. Half-formed. A little reckless. Completely uninterested in whether they’re useful yet. A few of them arrived around 4 AM on various mornings a few months ago and refused to let me go back to sleep. I have since made the habit to move into the kitchen so the floorboards wouldn’t betray me to my downstairs neighbor, tapping the rhythm into my chest, thumbing my 3/4 scale travel guitar (my bedside companion,) moving across the tile like my body already knew where it was headed.

One of those morning visitors became “In a Million.”

I didn’t plan to play it live four days later. I barely knew how. But house concerts have a way of forgiving you if you tell the truth first, and the song seemed to know that.

What you made possible through this campaign wasn’t just studio time or musicians or mixing hours. It was space. Enough of it for music to show up without being interrogated. Enough for me to stop asking every idea what it was worth before it had even finished introducing itself.

There’s work ahead. Real work. The kind that smells like cables and coffee and late nights. The kind I actually love. And for the first time in a long while, I’m not dragging myself toward it. I’m walking.

Tonight, I might go celebrate the new year with people I love. Or I might stay in and play the same unfinished song until it stops changing. Both feel right.

Either way, the record is happening.

Thank you for standing close enough to make that possible.

xo roem

This song didn’t start with an intention to write.

It started in the middle of the night, half asleep, when I woke up to do my usual 3am business. Somewhere in that fog, the chorus melody was already there. Fully formed. Words seemed to push through my lips like an old hymn I’d sung as a child. Catchy enough that I assumed it had to be something I’d heard before.

When I crawled back into bed, it hit me.

Nope. This was one of those moments again.

I’ve always written in my sleep. Years ago I released an EP called Night Phases made entirely of songs that came from that in-between state. This felt exactly like that. The muse had me by the collar, and sleep was no longer an option.

I started quietly singing the melody, tapping my chest to find the pulse, and I could feel it moving through my body. Not in a “grab a notebook” way, but in waves. Like the song already existed and just needed a place to land.

I carried the whole thing into the kitchen because it’s the only room in my apartment where the floorboards don’t creak. I didn’t want to wake my downstairs neighbor, but I also didn’t want to lose whatever this was.

The verse came. The pre-chorus. Then the chorus again.

It all happened so fast that I was convinced I had to be reworking an old idea. I wasn’t.

I recorded everything into my phone, then played it back while working out the chords on guitar, still half asleep. By the time the sun was outside my window flirting with joining me, I was wide awake, buzzing like I’d just slammed a pot of coffee at 4am, staring at a song that felt emotionally finished.

This happened back in April. Four days later, I played it live at a house concert.

I usually try new material at house concerts because the rooms are intimate and people are there for the stories as much as the songs. But I’d never planned to debut something that new. I still had to learn how to perform it. (spoiler alert: I forgot some words, as one does.)

But the song had other ideas.

That’s how In a Million came into the world.

And honestly, that’s how most of the best ones show up. Not when I chase them, (although I do believe creativity to be a muscle that one must exercise in order to sieze these moments, but more on that in another post.) Not when I force them. But when I get out of the way long enough to let them move through me.

What’s surprised me most during this album campaign is how much easier it’s been to access that space once I stopped trying to do everything alone.

When the pressure eased, music started coming back. Not in a polished, ready-for-release way. Just in the way that reminds you why you started making music in the first place. I’ve found this gratitude to be fertile soil.

And this is the part you’re helping make possible.

The quiet hours.
The half-formed songs.
The moments where something real shows up because there’s finally time and room to follow it.

HERE is a link to a quick video of In a Million. It’s still becoming. So am I.

Thanks for being here for it.

-Roem

If you want to be part of helping this record take its final shape, you can follow along or support the album here:
👉 roem.tv/betterthannever

Subscribe now

Hello friend, thanks for being here. I’m going to try and put into words what this part of the process feels like.

I didn’t expect a fundraising campaign to teach me anything about being loved, yet here we are.

It turns out the hardest part of making this album isn’t the writing, or the recording, or the late nights talking back to my inner critic.
It’s learning how to be helped.

The chorus of Golden Hour has this moment:

I wrote it about someone realizing a relationship is truly over, yet somehow discovering a strange, dizzy truth… that even in all the rubble, they are still worthy of love.

I didn’t expect that lyric to circle back and land in my own chest.

But this past week, with every message, every donation, every note saying “I believe in what you’re making,” I keep experiencing dueling jolts of disbelief, and utter joy:

Wait. Me? Really?

And suddenly the song makes more sense.

The Lesson I Wasn’t Expecting

I told my new hairstylist today about this strange emotional whiplash as she trimmed away a rat tail that can taken up residence in the back of my head (it had been over a year since my last trim.)

She told me to read The Alchemist.
Then, as if in a flow-state, she said:

“Lower your guard enough to accept help. Let people give to you. You aren’t just giving them joy, you’re opening the flow of your own path. If you refuse help, you block the next chapter of your life.”

I sat there kind of stunned.

And thought, “Who is this oracle that the universe sent to save me from myself, and this mullet?”

Because I grew up believing that needing help meant I must have messed up.
That real men pull themselves up by the bootstraps (she said, “if you even have boots,” which made me chuckle.)
That if I couldn’t create in a silo, it didn’t count.

But here’s the truth I keep learning over and over:

You cannot build anything meaningful alone.
At least nothing that lasts.
Not love.
Not healing.
Not art.

And definitely not this record that I can feel moving through me.

Something Opened After I Let People In

Once I stopped fighting the feeling of being helped and started this campaign, something in me opened.

The songs got clearer, while ideas started showing up like missing puzzle pieces.
My excitement came back in full color. I stopped obsessing over doing everything “the right way” and started making things again. Like when I was a child throwing round prickly seeds of the Sweetgum Tree into the river. Each an idea going downstream towards a place I’ve not seen. (yet)

I almost feel like I have The Muse tapping her foot going, “Can we record the album now or…?”

And honestly, yes.
I’m ready.
This campaign is simply the doorway. It’s the journey. The album origin story. I get it now.

The Real Love Story

I used to think this album was about past relationships.
Then I thought it was about a new one.
But what I’m realizing is that Better Than Never is actually about returning to myself.

About shedding the version of me who believed love had to be earned through exhaustion.
About shedding the version of me who thought that receiving was the same as taking.
About becoming someone who doesn’t cower for wanting joy.

This album is my love letter to that person.
And to anyone else trying to remember that they are worthy of good things.

Thank You for Helping Me Learn This

If you’ve supported the project already, I hope you know I don’t take it lightly.
I feel every single gesture, every message, every contribution.

It’s helping me recognize the artist I’ve seen in the mirror, unapologetically.
It’s empowering me walk into the studio with purpose and a vision that feels renewed.
And it’s affirming something I wrote a year ago but couldn’t quite believe:

If you want to be part of helping bring this album to life, you can take a peek at the project here:
https://roem.tv/betterthannever

More behind the scenes and music updates are on the way.
I can feel the momentum building.

Thanks for being part of this with me.

Love,
Roem

Three days ago, I was supposed to launch the fundraiser for my first full-length album.

And for three days… I sat frozen.
A lead weight in my belly, a nagging in the back of my mind, a deep fear creeping into my shoulders… resulting in me growing more and more angry with myself with every passing hour.

But instead of moving forward I,

• Kept researching the best possible way to do it.

• Rewriting paragraph after paragraph.

• Fixing things that weren’t broken, and “preparing” for what might break.

• Convincing myself the right time was just… tomorrow! Definitely doing it then!

Maybe you relate.
Maybe you’ve felt that “I should be handling this alone” pressure, even when you know it’s time to sing in chorus, not rip a guitar solo.

For me, the solution was summed up in one simple gesture:

I held my hands up, palms open, and said out loud:
“This is the hardest action for me. Learning to let support in.”
Even writing that now hits my chest in a strange way.

Suffering quietly.
Creating in isolation.
Expecting that I would return to the world with a perfect, finished thing, with no clue how many hands helped shape it. It was a tragically misinformed ego.

The truth is…
no one makes anything meaningful alone.
Not a record.
Not a life.
Not healing.
Not a comeback.

This album - Better Than Never - came out of a long season of loss, divorce, reflection, and rebuilding (still.)
It’s the most honest thing I’ve ever created.
And what surprised me is this:

I want to give this album the care and life it deserves.
To do that, I’ve launched a fundraiser with the encouragement of some amazing loved ones and patrons… with an incredibly generous and unexpected twist:

A $15,000 matching donation. (!)
Yes. Every dollar given becomes two, until we reach the $30,000 needed to finish this record.

Today, I’m inviting you into this with me.
If my music has ever meant something to you,
if you’ve seen me live,
or danced in your kitchen,
sang at the top of your lungs in rush hour traffic,
or held onto one of my songs during a rough moment…

I’d be honored if you helped me bring this album into the world.

Here’s the short video I recorded, which is basically a video substack.
It took me ten takes through several sirens, a motorcycle gang, and my upstairs neighbor dropping kettlebells (or whatever he drops up there).

But I meant every word.

Give Now - Every Dollar Doubled

I had just come back from a hike in Big Sur with friends visiting from Australia, the light slipping behind the ridgeline as the air around us turned that deep, honey-colored gold. I’d brought my guitar on this excursion, because sometimes when you stop chasing inspiration, she finds you anyway.

I sat on the edge of the bed in my little cabin, skin still salty from the ocean air, and started strumming. The first few chords came easy, fingers effortlessly finding the fretboard with my ear as a compass, like the universe had been waiting for me to slow down long enough to listen.

That was the moment Golden Hour was born, though back then, I called it Big Sur/Golden Hour, possibly giving the sheer natural beauty of the coastline a little too much credit, but if you’ve been, you know why.

At first, those early lyrics were about a place. But as it began to unravel itself, line by line, it started to feel like a map. A way back to myself.

The more I played it, the more the song revealed what it really was about, not geography, but grace. Not romance, but renewal. The way you can stand in the same light you once stood in with someone else, but this time, it feels like home instead of heartbreak.

A few days ago, I sat down to record an acoustic demo of the finished song to share with you. The first verse was going great, until a little golden tail strutted through the shot.

I smiled, but I kept going. Off camera she was winding up so I finished the take early, and then she came back and wanted to play.

“Do you want to play? C’mon, let’s go play.”

And that was it. The take was over, but in the best possible way.

The muse takes many forms.
Sometimes she visits as a chihuahua mix who just wants to play.

That moment felt like the whole point of the song.
Golden Hour isn’t about chasing perfection; it’s about catching yourself being human.

It’s about noticing when you’ve drifted from joy, and then letting something - or someone - nudge you back to it.

Better Than Never has become more than an album title for me. It’s become a mantra. A reminder that what matters most isn’t how fast we rebuild, but how honestly we return.

When the light hits just right, even the imperfect take becomes the keeper.

💌 If you’re finding your way back to your own golden hour,
join me here for early demos, stories, and the making of the record.

Subscribe now

I used to measure my success by how busy I was, not how alive I felt.

As recent as yesterday, it had been nearly a year since I last sent an email to the list of thousands of people that willfully subscribed to my journey as an artist… a list earned through bloody fingertips, strained sleep on strangers couches, and stepping up countless times into the silent spotlight of the beer-burp metal torch left by the last band, my lips kissing the cold steel, “How’s everyone doing tonight…?”

Somewhere between late-night gigs, early flights, and trying to hold everything together for myself and my kids, I realized that I had begun performing productivity instead of music. I was completely burned out, no true north, no spark, wondering why I was even doing this.

Can anyone relate? Bueller?

The Great Unlearning

I kept chasing my goal of “independent artist” like it meant isolation; as if I thought I had to do it all alone, before I had anything to offer anyone else. But the truth?

We humans are wired for community.

Somewhere along the way I lost the part that made it fun: the kitchen-dance-while-doing-the-dishes moment, the singing-in-traffic moment, the swaying-with-your-loved-one moment. That flash in your body when the right song hits, and in spite of the laundry piled high, the boss is breathing down your neck, you sing through the shit anyway. Powered purely by your communion with music.

I mean, that’s why I started this journey in the first place; to make music that moves people like it moves me. To dance, to sing, to finish the vacuuming (a fan told me my songs help her vitriol of household chores.) And to do it together.

The Pause

So I just stopped. I took a deep breath and a look around.

Yes, the last few years have been challenging, but I realized that state of always rebuilding alone had become my default programming.

And it wasn’t sustainable.

I started walking again. Then running. Lifting heavy. Put my phone down. Sat quietly with my kids, the ocean, the wildflowers, the birds on a cliff overlooking the expanse. I skipped some rocks. Got a sunburn. More gray hair.

Stopped listening to the voice reminding me of my failures. Stopped drinking alcohol. Stopped saying no, and started saying “why the fuck not?”

I screamed into the dark. It felt good to get that out.

A New Way

And for the first time in a long time (maybe ever), I tried building from a new mindset. Sure, I wish I knew then what I know now, but with clarity comes an opportunity for new choices. (Yay, therapy!)

I sat down and poured through my voicenotes app like the sole benefactor of my will (musicians you know what I’m talking about) to find an inspiration, a time-capsule buried from my past self to inspire this new direction.

What I found was hundreds of unfinished love notes to myself.

I didn’t set out to make an album. I set out to follow joy, the muse, the adjectives of my desired life. And what spilled out of me was song after song that felt truer than ever. So I gave in and two years later, I have a full album of songs (and some to spare) and best of all, a reignited love of creating.

The new record is called Better Than Never and its very existence is born of intention and self-reflection. Songs born from late-night questions, small wins, and the people in my orbit who’ve stuck around through the mess and the magic.

For me, it’s my most audacious effort. And my most human.

The Invitation

For the first time in my career, I’m trusting myself to produce these songs the way I hear them, with a small circle of trusted and brilliant collaborators, and I’m inviting you in the room while it happens. Over the next few weeks I’ll share demos, studio clips, live streams, and the stories behind the songs that are shaping this album.

If you’ve ever felt like you were performing life instead of living it; this music is for you.

And if this project ends up helping you reconnect to that joy, I’ll call that the best kind of success.

I know I’m not the only one looking to embrace their better than never.