"Music is what I breathe, what I love to do. It keeps me alive"

The words frame music not as a career but as a vital function, something as elemental as breathing. Breathing is constant, involuntary, and sustaining; to equate music with breath is to say it operates beneath conscious choice, a rhythm that undergirds existence. The statement also carries a practical truth for a singer: breath is literally the engine of voice. Technique, control, and resonance all begin in the lungs, so the metaphor collapses into the body, music is both spirit and physiology.

There’s a second strand braided into that necessity: love. To love what keeps you alive is to align passion with survival, turning vocation into lifeblood. It suggests a relationship with art that is reciprocal; she gives herself to music, and music gives her coherence, relief, and purpose. In a life lived under relentless scrutiny, that reciprocity becomes sanctuary. The studio becomes a refuge where chaos can be metabolized into melody, pain into structure, and public noise into personal truth.

The phrase keeps me alive evokes more than creativity; it signals resilience. Art becomes a coping mechanism, a way to endure upheaval, reinvention, and expectation. It also implies continuity: alive is a present tense, a daily act. Songs aren’t just products; they are breaths taken one after another, proof of ongoing presence. Onstage, that vitality becomes communal. The feedback loop with an audience, voices joining, bodies moving in time, feels like shared oxygen, a collective inhalation and exhalation that affirms connection.

There’s discipline here too. Breathing is effortless until it isn’t; singing demands training, stamina, and care. So the sentiment honors both ecstasy and labor. When art is oxygen, authenticity is nonnegotiable, trends can’t substitute for breath. Ultimately, the line reveals a philosophy of survival and purpose: make the thing that keeps you alive, and it may keep others alive with you.