When I First Met Aja
When I first met Aja Volkman, I’ll be honest—I didn’t think too much of it. Not because she wasn’t striking, or because something was missing, but because at that point in my life, I was wired differently. My compass pointed in one direction, and one direction only: music.
Music was the sun around which everything else orbited. My friends, my family, my ambitions, my very sense of self—it all bent around the gravity of song. Every waking thought revolved around rehearsals, melodies, lyrics that kept me awake at night, rhythms that echoed in my bones like an unanswered call. I was consumed by the chase of it, the hunger for a sound that felt true, something that could both define me and free me at the same time.
So when someone mentioned her name—Aja, Aja Volkman—it didn’t register. Romance wasn’t on my radar. Love? Partnership? Those were luxuries, distractions even, to a younger version of myself who believed that devotion to music required sacrifice.
And yet, when she walked into my life, she didn’t arrive like the thunderclap I had always expected love to be. No lightning bolt. No swelling orchestral score in the background. She came in like a quiet melody you almost miss on first listen, one you hum absentmindedly, one that sneaks into your subconscious without fanfare. And before you realize it, it’s part of you.
The Chaos Before Her
In those early years, my life was defined by chaos. Not chaos in the destructive sense, but in the restless, kinetic energy of youth. I had been raised in a world where ambition was currency. The world of sports had shaped me in high school—competition, sweat, discipline, wins, losses. But when I found music, it was like stepping out of a rigidly lined field and into an infinite sky.
The nights were wild. Dingy clubs, sticky floors, tiny stages where sound systems broke down mid-set. Living off adrenaline and vending-machine meals, surviving on dreams and little else. We were chasing something unseen, something only we could hear, and I poured every ounce of myself into it.
Relationships? They were fleeting. I met people, connected briefly, and then the road pulled me away again. I wasn’t cruel, but I wasn’t present. The road is unforgiving in that way—it doesn’t pause for feelings. My heart was always in rehearsal rooms, in scribbled notebooks, in late-night jam sessions where exhaustion melted into euphoria.
So when Aja appeared, I almost dismissed her—not consciously, but instinctively. My brain told me, Don’t get sidetracked. Don’t let go of the music.
A Different Kind of Melody
But Aja wasn’t the kind of person you could easily dismiss.
She wasn’t loud, wasn’t trying to grab the spotlight. She didn’t play the games that people often play in social circles, posturing or performing some curated version of themselves. She was steady—rooted in a way I wasn’t. There was a groundedness to her presence that caught me off guard.
I remember the first real conversation we had. I went in expecting small talk, the usual dance of surface-level words. Instead, she disarmed me with honesty. She listened more than she spoke, and when she did speak, it carried weight. She didn’t waste language. Every sentence had intention behind it.
I was so used to chaos—the endless noise of the road, the chatter of crowds, the constant buzz in my own head—that her calmness was jarring. It was like walking out of a packed stadium into a quiet desert night, where you can suddenly hear your own heartbeat.
She wasn’t what I expected, not at all. But that was precisely the point.
The Tension Between Two Worlds
For a while, I resisted it.
I told myself I didn’t have time for love. I told myself I was too focused, too disciplined, too married to the idea of becoming something through music to let someone in. Love, I thought, would demand too much of me, and I didn’t have anything left to give.
But the truth was, I was afraid. Afraid that letting someone in meant losing part of myself. Afraid that choosing intimacy meant diluting my purpose. Afraid that maybe I wasn’t capable of the kind of partnership people dream about.
Yet every time I found myself around her, those fears quieted. My restless energy softened. Instead of pulling me away from music, she grounded me enough to return to it with more clarity. Her steadiness didn’t compete with my chaos; it balanced it. She was a counterpoint, a harmony to my restless melody.
And I began to realize something: music had always been about connection. Every song I wrote, every lyric I sang, was an attempt to bridge the gap between me and the world, between me and myself. And here was someone who embodied that connection in human form.
The Slow Realization
Love didn’t come to me like a strike of lightning. It came like a tide—slow, insistent, impossible to ignore once it began to rise.
I remember watching her perform once, before we were really “us.” She wasn’t trying to impress anyone. She wasn’t flashy. But she sang with this raw authenticity that went straight to the core. No embellishments, no unnecessary flair—just truth. And I thought, This is what music is supposed to feel like.
I started to crave her presence the way I craved the stage. Not because she filled some emptiness in me, but because she mirrored the best parts of me back to myself. She challenged me, too—called me out when my ego got in the way, pushed me to grow past my comfort zones.
Slowly, without me realizing it, my songs started to change. The themes shifted. The tones softened. There was still fire, but now there was warmth too. Music wasn’t just my outlet for chaos anymore—it became my language for love.
The Shift in Perspective
Looking back, it feels almost inevitable. At the time, though, it felt like standing at a crossroads I hadn’t expected to find. One path led deeper into the lonely pursuit of ambition. The other asked me to take a risk—not just with my career, but with my heart.
I chose her.
Not in a dramatic, sweeping gesture, but in a hundred small ways. Choosing to call. Choosing to show up. Choosing to listen. Choosing to let her see the parts of me I usually kept hidden behind music.
And in return, she chose me.
That’s the thing about love that people rarely talk about—it’s not a one-time event, not some cinematic moment frozen in time. It’s a daily decision. A rhythm you fall into together. Some days you’re in sync, some days you’re not, but the point is that you keep choosing.
What She Taught Me
Meeting Aja reshaped the way I understood not just love, but music, and life itself.
She taught me that steadiness isn’t boring—it’s courageous. That vulnerability isn’t weakness—it’s strength. That love isn’t about losing yourself—it’s about finding yourself in a larger story.
She became, in many ways, a mirror and a muse. Songs that might never have existed found their way into the world because she cracked open something in me. And even in the hardest times—the arguments, the distance, the struggles—there was an undercurrent of respect, a foundation that kept us tethered.
With her, I learned to stop running from stillness. To embrace the spaces between the notes, the silence that gives the song meaning.
Full Circle
When I look back now, I see how easy it would have been to miss it. To let my ambition blind me. To convince myself that music was enough on its own.
But music, without love, is just sound. It’s the connection that makes it a song.
Aja walked into my life like a quiet melody, one I almost ignored. And yet, that melody became the theme of my life’s symphony.
She wasn’t what I expected. She was what I needed.
And that made all the difference.
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