I used to think transformation happened all at once. A single decision. A single breakthrough. A single moment where everything suddenly made sense. But that’s not how it happened for me.

Transformation was much quieter. It looked like letting go of things I thought I needed. It looked like accepting endings I didn’t choose. It looked like releasing old versions of myself that no longer fit the life I was growing into. And if I’m honest, there were moments when that process felt less like growth and more like loss.

Because before something new can emerge, something old often has to fall away. The plans. The expectations. The identities. The stories we’ve been telling ourselves for years. There is grief in that. Even when it’s leading somewhere better.

The image of the Phoenix has always fascinated me, but not for the reason most people think. Everyone talks about the rising. The rebirth. The triumph. Very few people talk about the ashes. Or what remains after the fire.

Phoenix Bones was born from that realization. That strength isn’t found in pretending the fire never happened. It’s found in acknowledging what it changed. What it took. What it revealed. Some parts of me didn’t survive the journey that inspired this album.

Certain beliefs burned away. Certain expectations burned away. Certain fears burned away. Maybe’s that’s why I’ve always been drawn to the symbolism of transformation.

As someone with a Scorpio Rising astrology placement, I’ve often joked that I will live a hundred different lives within a single lifetime.

Looking back, there may be more truth in that then I realized. I’ve watched entire versions of myself fall away and had to learn who I was without them.

What’s even more interesting is that I was raised by a Scorpio Rising, and now I’m raising my son who is one as well. Three generations connected by the same theme. Not sameness, we are all very different people, but a shared understanding that life has a way of asking us to shed our skin and begin again.

I’ve watched that resilience in my mother. I’ve recognized it in myself. And now I catch glimpses of it in my son.

The willingness to walk through difficult seasons and emerge changed by them. Not untouched. Not unscarred. Changed. Perhaps that’s why the image of the Phoenix has always felt familiar to me. Not because of the fire itself, but because of the understanding that transformation is not a single event.

It’s a way of moving through the world. A willingness to let go of what no longer fits and trust that something true will remain. And while there were days I mourned those losses, I can now see they created space for something new. Not a new person. A truer one.

The older I get, the less interested I am in becoming someone else. I’m more interested in becoming more fully myself. That’s what the bones represent. The foundation. The things that remain when everything unnecessary falls away. The values. The lessons. The resilience. The love. The parts of us that survive every season.

Phoenix Bones is not a song about starting over. It’s a song about discovering that even after the fire, there is still something worth building upon. Sometimes the strongest part of us is what remains.