About the Book
🎤 "What's Love Got To Do With It?" (turns out, everything).
Playlists
At first, I didn’t even know I was writing a book. I just missed my brother. Writing became my way of reaching for him again, and an attempt to let chaos and meaning sit in the same room.
It started as a journal that served as a way to finish the conversations we never got to have. (Because death is rude like that. It steals the last turn, and you end up scrolling through old text threads and replaying voicemails, hoping you said enough.)
What I found in the writing, though, wasn’t clarity or closure. It was a faith that asked hard questions and stayed when the answers didn’t come.
Playlists is shaped like its name suggests. Each section is its own setlist, carefully collected and arranged like the songs we reach for when we’re trying to make sense of something.
Threaded throughout the book are scenes from my dad’s years in the music industry, woven into the background noise of our childhood. His work backstage or in the studio wasn’t just part of his job; it set the tone for how we lived and listened. He wasn’t famous himself, but he worked closely with people who were, and the stories he brought back weren’t about fame. They were about what it meant to be human under pressure, raw and vulnerable. There were nights before shows when Tina Turner cried and he listened. Moments when Madonna laughed because he knew how to disarm a room. A shared beer with George Harrison after a long set. These memories stuck with us, not because of who the artists were, but because of how my dad showed up for them. He knew how to hold space for people who were used to being seen but rarely understood. Later, that same faithful presence met us in our own unraveling.
So this book isn’t about addiction, exactly. Because addiction didn’t define my brother or our family. Steady love defined absolutely everything.
It’s about God still being present in the dissonance, and about how redemption doesn’t always look like a neat resolution. It’s messier than that, and somehow more sacred because of it. And it’s about the way music steps in when language falls short—how it carries grief, memory, hope, and everything tangled in between.
If you’ve ever loved someone through something hard, then this book is for you. I hope these words sit beside you the way a song does, soft and honest. Or like belting out the lyrics off-key with the windows rolled down. Either way, I’m glad you’re here.
