I’m not sure when people stopped recognizing me. Maybe it was when I put on fifteen pounds. Maybe it was when I got bangs. Maybe it was when I stopped wearing a full face of makeup every single day. Regardless, one minute I was dodging paparazzi and shrieking fans left and right, and the next I was completely anonymous.

I’d known I wanted out of the music industry upon the release of my most recent album. I was only twenty, but already the execs had run me ragged. I was constantly strung out on coke and black coffee and cigarettes and I looked like shit - I’d aged ten years in two. The night of the album release the label threw a massive party. Blacked out before midnight even arrived, I woke up completely alone on the floor of the bathroom. I checked my phone - 2:34am. The last time I’d remember checking it was hours ago, which meant that no one had come to check on me in hours. At my own party. Struggling to my feet, I made my way to the sink and proceeded to throw up the (very minimal) contents of my stomach. I then splashed my face with some water before finally daring to look at my reflection. I barely recognized myself. Mascara was smeared under my eyes, lipstick streaked across my cheek. I looked thin and haggard and in that moment I knew I was done. If I didn’t leave the industry ASAP, it was going to kill me - fast.