Looking back, what has shifted in your career and what remains unchanged?

Early on I was driven by sheer ambition—I worked relentlessly with the singular aim of succeeding as a songwriter. Today the emphasis has softened: I derive genuine pleasure from collaborating with talented artists and colleagues. That delight in the work itself is far more prominent now.

What hasn’t changed is my dedication. I still pour everything into every project. For artists, each song becomes part of their story, and being entrusted with that responsibility is something I approach with seriousness and wholehearted effort.

When did making music start to feel freer or more enjoyable?

A pivotal moment was attending my first songwriting camp in Sweden. Those camps bring together creators from many countries to work intensively in the same room, and that collaborative energy was revelatory. Until then I tended to work in isolation, but being surrounded by peers who pushed and inspired one another transformed how I view the process.

That camp made me realize I could be fulfilled focusing on songwriting and production—especially when the work is as rewarding and fun as those sessions. Connecting with people across cultures and creating collectively opened my eyes to new possibilities.

International camps still feel male-dominated. What was the gender balance like there?

Even on the global stage, producers remain predominantly male. I’ve grown accustomed to that imbalance, so seeing many women is still surprising. There are more female artists and topliners, but producers—particularly those handling technical and production tasks—are still few and far between.

Why do you think there are comparatively few female producers?

Part of it is the nature of production work: it can demand long hours, physical stamina and constant, deadline-driven attention. That intensity can be a barrier. Another element is perception—producing is often imagined as a highly technical, equipment-focused role, which can discourage people who haven’t had opportunities to tinker and learn that side of the craft.

In my case I sometimes act more like an executive producer—shaping the overall vision, choosing collaborators and guiding the project—yet women in those leadership roles are still uncommon. I would love to see that change.

What principle do you consistently bring to your work?

I prioritize listening. Understanding an artist’s worldview—the emotion they want to convey—as well as what the label or management expects, is essential. If we miss that, even a technically excellent song won’t resonate in the way we hope. That attentiveness is where true artistic individuality emerges.

How do you practice self-care to sustain a long career?

Family life has been a grounding force. In the studio I can get completely absorbed—losing track of time, skipping meals—so returning home and seeing my children brings me back to a healthier rhythm. Those transitions help me release tension from the day and reset before sleep.

Having external limits—like weekends off because of childcare—has been unexpectedly beneficial; they force me to step away and recharge, which ultimately improves my creative work.

Did pregnancy or motherhood change how you saw your career?

I was anxious at first and kept my pregnancy private for much of the time, worried people might treat me differently or stop offering work. When others remarked that I would “slow down,” it stung—I felt compelled to prove I could continue. Ironically, giving birth during the pandemic made returning to work more manageable because so much shifted online, allowing me to blend caregiving with remote meetings sooner than I expected.

Becoming a mother broadened my emotional perspective. I feel more tenderness and concern not only for my immediate circle but for others as well. Those subtle changes in empathy have fed into my creative sensibility.

Do you have creative principles you always return to?

Music saved me in difficult moments when I was younger; it offered reasons to keep going. Because of that, I aim to write songs that open a small door to hope—pieces that make someone think, “Maybe tomorrow will be better,” or “Maybe this can change.” Whether bright or somber, I avoid closing off the idea of a future. My hope is that my music can offer solace or companionship when people need it most.

Have you felt excluded or uneasy because of gender in your work?

I’ve been fortunate to find ways to work my own way, but exclusions still happen—like not being included in late-night gatherings where decisions are made. Hearing that connections forged in those spaces led to opportunities can be frustrating. Younger colleagues often share similar stories, and I hope the industry continues to evolve toward greater fairness.

What would you tell young people pursuing music or a life true to themselves?

You only live once—strive to live authentically. Responsibilities will always limit how freely you can act, but that struggle has its own dignity. There will be moments when you need to fight, speak up or endure friction; those challenges often open the path to a more livable future. Keep expressing yourself: every voice that speaks its truth makes the world richer.