There are moments as an artist that catch you off guard—not because they’re flashy or loud, but because they’re so deeply human. One of those happened to me recently, and I’ve been carrying it in my heart ever since.

I was a guest musician at a conference in the beautiful city of Grand Rapids, Michigan. My hotel room overlooked the river, offering rare pockets of quiet where I could rest and reflect between sessions.

The event itself was unforgettable—over 2,500 people gathered in one place, representing 85 different countries. The singing was rich and full, the energy electric… and yet, beneath all the sound and motion, there was something deeply sacred in the air.

After one of the sessions, a woman approached me. She looked at me intently, as if trying to communicate something important. But she didn’t speak English. And I didn’t speak her language.

Still, she tried.

I listened, puzzled. Then I wondered—was she trying to say something complimentary about the music? Did she recognize me as the musician? I motioned with my fingers, pretending to play piano. Her face lit up with a smile. We were getting somewhere.

She began digging through her bag. I assumed she was reaching for her phone to open a translation app. That’s common at global events like this.

But instead, she pressed play.

It was a recording from earlier in the session. My music.

That was her message.

No words. Just a recording. Just music. But it said everything.

In that moment, I was reminded:
Music doesn’t need a passport.
It doesn’t need a dictionary.
It goes where words can’t—and says what words don’t know how to say.

That one moment said more than a thousand translated words ever could.
And I won’t forget it.

As I check off my own boxes for an international recording trip with Double Keyed—renewing my passport, organizing details, crunching the numbers, and practicing the music for the adventure ahead—I carry that moment with me. Because even though I need documents and logistics to cross borders, the music doesn’t.