On the edge of autumn and summer, a baby born to a sapphire birthstone came into being. An earth sign and a premature baby, the first entire month of my life was spent viewing it from inside a little glass box in the  hospital. I thought it strange how quiet this new world I’d just arrived in was. The images around me moved in slow motion and high speed at the same time. Born mostly deaf with a blood sugar level so low that blinking was essentially killing me, my little baby body didn’t quite know how to work together. The aliens in lab coats spent an entire moon cycle trying to keep me alive. “Jonathan,” the aliens whispered one day as if I was one of their own, “it’s time to go home.”

Home found me the son of a growing financial advisor father and an artsy kindergarten teacher mother. My 2 half siblings and one full-blooded sibling were all born on the 16th of different months across 2 different decades while I was born on the 6th of September marking the 3rd. I was officially a 90’s baby and 90’s babies did things a little bit differently.

Tigard, Oregon was a small suburban town outside of Portland. That’s Tigard (Tie-GERD.) If you pronounced it like a certain orange bouncy Disney character, I can’t be responsible for the looks you get. Back then, the population was a little over 30,000 but that nearly doubled over the course of the following 30 years. Most of the unpopulated areas were farmland or forest. When I was little my house was one of 5 in my neighborhood. A uniquely laid-out city placed between many others, one quick 5 minute car ride would land you in Beaverton, Tualatin, King City, or Lake Oswego. 15-20 minutes in the car would find you in Portland or Vancouver, Washington. Everything and anything was “just off of 99,” the highway that pierces straight through the city like a lightning bolt.

Yes, it was the 90s and the turn of the millennium. Technology was beginning to boom, every tech gear becoming see-through. If I wasn’t playing with my Power Rangers or Beetleborgs I was on my Gameboy playing Pokémon. My Nintendo 64 also saw much use when exploring the paintings in Mario 64 or the temples in The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time. When I needed a break from those it was time to explore the outside catching butterflies, playing in the grass, or jumping through the sprinkler as if it were a magical veil to another realm on the front lawn. Sometimes my Power Rangers and Pokémon figures would join me in such quests to alternate realities. At one point I even wrote up full length TV shows with my Power Rangers and Pokémon in spiral notebooks. In greatly detailed kindergarten chicken scratch, I carefully etched out every plot line. I liked the way a story came together and the way a pencil felt in my hand. Somehow it felt like I had control of the narrative; like there was nothing I couldn’t do. I watched the toys in my hands behave as real as the world around me, each one having their own backgrounds and character arcs. I was just the omniscient narrator in their truth and discoveries.

As I grew, I poured myself into my schoolwork. My parents never had to worry about my grades because I simply did the work and took pride in it. The adults in my life praised my work ethic and making people smile made me feel good. Plus, I had a nice little ability to naturally form an essay with a clear beginning, middle, and end that came in handy quite often. I rarely read through my essays or papers after I typed them and almost always got an “A” regardless. Because of this, my friends loved having me correct their papers even in elementary school so their grades would improve. Seeing other people succeed also made me feel good inside too.

However, as the early 2000s approached and puberty began to show itself, my peers stopped asking me to review their papers. In fact, they stopped asking me to do much. The conversations became cold and I’d find myself alone at recess or during free moments in classes. If people did speak to me however, they certainly didn’t want to hear a response. After one girl decided that the way I spoke was also unacceptable by persuading all of the friends I once had to snicker at my every word for 5 years for “sounding like a girl,” I learned very quickly that for my own protection, my voice was better left silent.

This behavior confused me. How could I physically look like everyone else and be nothing like them? I was a boy but the boys thought I wasn’t athletic enough to hang out with. I could talk easier to the girls but the girls just made fun of me and kept their distance. The schoolyard hierarchy made no sense. The things I enjoyed too, quickly became uncool and unacceptable. My passions turned into secrets. If I loved it, the cool people hated it. If I opened my mouth, people would embarrass me. The only place I seemed to do anything well was in my schoolwork. After a while, I craved the time alone with my pencil. The more I excelled however, the more ammunition the bullies had. Who knew being labeled “smart” had negative connotations? My teachers would approach me about advanced classes but I always said no because saying yes put me on the losing side. I felt insecure and confused about it all.

In hindsight, the world my toys existed in often mirrored the human interactions I saw. The red ranger would be friends with the pink ranger until the blue ranger swooped in and took that friend away. Suddenly they’d be on Survivor and someone had to be voted off. In and out they’d rotate until one stood alone. It’s as if playing with my toys and writing their interactions down helped me understand how people could be so cruel. I was on the outside looking in, permitted to enter the room the characters existed in but not allowed to not have an opinion on their communications. Maybe I was the alien in the glass box and the lab coats weren’t? The difference now was that I could step between both worlds but never belong to either of them.

Much later in life, I learned that the second world I could step into wasn’t actually my imagination. It wasn’t a physical place I could go to either. It was bigger than that. Full of more possibilities than any fantasy land. My toys and their lives were simply the product of it. This second world was vast and powerful. It had storms with winds more damaging than an F5 tornado. More sunshine than the golden west coast could ever dream to be touched by. Stories and imagery so rich it was like the most delicious chocolate cake on the tip of your tongue.

I was afraid of that world.

I was afraid of my reality.

Luckily, there was one place I was never afraid of. A sacred temple in the sea of loneliness. This special sanctuary was filled with people who loved and accepted me and my voice. When I was at war with my reality world, this place granted me peace. When my second world was closed off, it brought me in with open arms. An oasis when I couldn’t bare one more day in the heat of it all. A special yearly program that took my imagination and curiosity to somewhere I hadn’t yet physically ventured to.

Japan.

Hey There!

This week I'm talking about a topic I've seen quite a bit lately -aging out of the music industry. It's an older mindset based on how the music industry used to function that isn't really true anymore. So today, we're diving in and looking at how it happened and why you shouldn't feel that invisible "time crunch" anymore.

xo,
​JONATHAN MILLER📕

People have been making fun of me for the sound of my voice since I first started talking. If you think you’re the first one to tell me I should quit music, you’re not (and you’d be quite pretentious thinking so.)

From the time I was little, whether I’m speaking or singing, someone has always deemed it their responsibility to keep my voice silenced; to reinforce the notion that my thoughts, feelings, and opinions are not “good enough.”

That was until recently when I realized they don’t actually hate my voice: they fear it.

Being a self-taught songwriter and musician has often filled my head with self-doubt. I’m no stranger to the “am I really an artist” dilemma that plagues creatives. When recounting experiences in my past, too often I say, “that was a dark time for me.” Yet, while explaining these anecdotes, I always feel the need to list out qualifier after qualifier for why I feel, think, say, or do anything about my own life experiences. Do you ever feel like that?

The constant need to explain myself I’ve learned is actually the long-term effects of other people repeatedly silencing my voice; the consequences of other people’s actions. It’s not our fault that people like me feel we must qualify our existence, but it turns out “no” is complete sentence.

These prickly barbs manifested within me as anxiety; depression; self-hatred; frustration; self-harm; suicidal thoughts; and more: all because I have never once felt that anyone really cared about what I had to say. In other words, there were too many thorns distracting from the beauty of the rose.

Every artist has a story to tell. Every artist has had people try to silence their art; who “had their best interests in mind.” Every songwriter carries the pen that will lead them through the words, phrases, sentences, lyrics, and chapters that paint the story of their own life.

This song is for anyone who has been silenced. Whether you are LGBTQIA or not, if you’ve been made fun for the sound of your voice or people have spoken over you repeatedly drowning you out, I hope this song empowers you to reclaim what’s rightfully yours.

Every writer is an artist.

So since I happen to be a writer and a re-introduction is in order, why not start this story with the very first thing that made me insecure all those years ago?

📕BOOK ONE: I Heard You Hate My Voice🌹
Jonathan Miller

WATCH THE MUSIC VIDEO + STREAM THE SONG NOW

Letter From Jonathan:
People have been making fun of me for the sound of my voice since I first started talking. If you think you’re the first one to tell me I should quit music, you’re not (and you’d be quite pretentious thinking so.)

From the time I was little, whether I’m speaking or singing, someone has always deemed it their responsibility to keep my voice silenced; to reinforce the notion that my thoughts, feelings, and opinions are not “good enough.”

That was until recently when I realized they don’t actually hate my voice: they fear it.

Being a self-taught songwriter and musician has often filled my head with self-doubt. I’m no stranger to the “am I really an artist” dilemma that plagues creatives. When recounting experiences in my past, too often I say, “that was a dark time for me.” Yet, while explaining these anecdotes, I always feel the need to list out qualifier after qualifier for why I feel, think, say, or do anything about my own life experiences. Do you ever feel like that?

The constant need to explain myself I’ve learned is actually the long-term effects of other people repeatedly silencing my voice; the consequences of other people’s actions. It’s not our fault that people like me feel we must qualify our existence, but it turns out “no” is complete sentence.

These prickly barbs manifested within me as anxiety; depression; self-hatred; frustration; self-harm; suicidal thoughts; and more: all because I have never once felt that anyone really cared about what I had to say. In other words, there were too many thorns distracting from the beauty of the rose.

Every artist has a story to tell. Every artist has had people try to silence their art; who “had their best interests in mind.” Every songwriter carries the pen that will lead them through the words, phrases, sentences, lyrics, and chapters that paint the story of their own life.

This song is for anyone who has been silenced. Whether you are LGBTQIA or not, if you’ve been made fun for the sound of your voice or people have spoken over you repeatedly drowning you out, I hope this song empowers you to reclaim what’s rightfully yours.

Every writer is an artist.

So since I happen to be a writer and a re-introduction is in order, why not start this story with the very first thing that made me insecure all those years ago?

📕BOOK ONE: I Heard You Hate My Voice🌹
"I Heard You Hate My Voice" is now available on all platforms.
​Show your support for Jonathan by buying this song on iTunes, streaming it, watching the music video (and share it with your friends.)

Hey There!

Before dropping a new single, a lot of artists wonder when the best time to actually release it is. Does the time of year matter? Should it be Friday or does the day even matter? Well, to help set you up for success, let's dive in and find out! 

xo,
JONATHAN MILLER📕

Being an independent artist who also makes consistent high quality video content is a balance that I think I'm still figuring out how to do properly. 

It's like I wear 3 separate hats that I constantly have to change between depending on what I'm doing; like changing your work attire at 3 different jobs. They all might fall under the same umbrella of music but they all require different qualifications to pull off smoothly. I'm a one-man show most of the time so it gets a little tricky. 

Honestly, sometimes I'm not really even sure how I do it because I still struggle financially.🏦

I've invested everything I own into what I do. Music is my passion but I'm not also releasing a new song every 5 minutes. I'd love to but I'm independent which means I don't always have the time and resources to. Which is where the video hat comes into play. Ad revenue on YouTube is much smaller than people think especially for a growing channel like mine. 

I get comments all the time about how I should have more followers, streams, and views and it's a very nice compliment, but I'll admit I'm not entirely sure why I don't either. I work hard at what I do and I really love doing it but my bank account would also like to smile occasionally. 😭

So here's what my goals are:
🌹 I want to hit 10,000 Subscribers on Youtube by the end of the year.
🌹 I want to hit 50,000 followers on TikTok
🌹 I want to hit 500 followers on Spotify.

Following, subscribing, and sharing my content really helps the ol' algorithm send it out to more people. It helps me grow and keep producing music, videos, and other types of content as well. I don't like asking people for these things (you'd think I'd be used to it by now!) but I work really hard so I think I should stop being shy and be more confident in myself.

It's funny, when you make content online (regardless of your field) it always seems like everyone knows your biggest insecurities: your low budget, that acne scar, your camera, your fingernail color, your hair, the sound of your voice. Trolls love to bring up that stuff all the time which makes us hate ourselves and get self-conscious. 

But if there's anything I've learned in my time as an online creator and musician it's that owning your biggest insecurities is the most powerful thing you can do.

And luckily as a musician, my favorite way of owning my insecurities is writing a song about it.

xo,
JONATHAN MILLER📕