I’ve always loved beauty. As a little girl, I remember lying on the top bunk and listening to The First Noel as the snow fell on the trees outside my window. That was the first time I ever cried those strange, happy tears that come from experiencing more beauty than the heart can hold. 

I had no idea then how fragile that feeling was.

It wasn't many years later that I opened the case of my first mandolin, a little black Kentucky A-style. All I remember thinking was that it was beautiful and it was mine. But the challenge of learning how to play was almost too much for a sulky 10-year-old girl who had quit everything she had ever tried, from baseball to guitar. I was on the brink of giving up again when, struggling through a passage from ‘Music for a Found Harmonium’ by Penguin Cafe Orchestra, something clicked. I could play just enough of the tune to appreciate how beautiful it was, and the idea of being able to play it for others lit a fire in me. From then on, I actually practiced, and it wasn’t long before I was winning competitions and beginning to see this little mandolin as my ticket to travel the world. By 16, I was writing songs of my own and playing churches across the Midwest with my family. I dropped out of community college that year and decided I would do whatever it took to succeed as a musician, though I had no idea what that meant. 

My desperation attracted plenty of folks who were eager to cast a vision for my life, and by the time I was 20, my sisters and I had signed a major record deal in Nashville, TN.  

The label days are what I refer to as the dark ages. And though it’s tempting to claim I was young and naive, it wouldn’t be true. I deliberately turned my back on that little girl who cried over beauty, and I made a mad dash for fame. 

The light didn’t come back into my life until I met my husband, Casey. He was the first person who ever really saw me. Not the me on stage with the skimpy clothes and fake eyelashes, but the little girl underneath it all who everyone, including myself, had abandoned. He was the first person I told that I was scared nobody would love me if I wasn’t on a stage. 

Casey helped me find my way out of that life, and together we cast a new vision, one that didn’t need a record label. Where the pursuit of fame was replaced with the joy of craftsmanship, and where meaningful connection with people who loved beauty and traditional music could thrive.

And so Lady Moon was born. 

On the outside, it’s a mandolin-centric project inspired by tradition and quiet living. At its heart, Lady Moon is my way of sharing the love of beauty I’ve had since childhood.