SPOTLIGHT: NAHOME

Meet Nahome and tune into his new single “i can’t”

You’ve described your sound as existing between vulnerability and atmosphere. How does “i can’t” embody that balance?

In my eyes, “i can’t” truly lives within that space of vulnerability and atmosphere. This song was pulled out of my emotional core, a real moment that I’ve gone through. I’ve been trying to process a letter from my ex, who had asked if there was a chance to rekindle. I never knew how I could answer back with words, so I let it out through music. This kind of vulnerability, within my music, was viscerally uncomfortable. But at the same time, it truly allowed me to breathe, and I felt that I should hold space for it rather than hide it. At the same time, I never stop thinking about how the music and instrumentation feel sonically. Not just the lyrics, but the air around them. I intended for the production to provide a sparse feel, progressing in a cinematic way, so that there was room for the raw emotion to breathe without feeling cluttered. I think it feels intimate but also massive, like the whole world is slowing down towards this very one moment. This balance of feeling exposed but flying in something ethereal is where I think my sound lives. 

What was the emotional core of “i can’t” when you began writing it, and did it stay the same by the time it was finished?

The emotional core of “i can’t” came from a realization at 3 a.m. that hit me all at once. After years of not fully moving on from my ex-girlfriend, it’s almost like the brain chemistry within me shifted, and I knew it was time to close that chapter in my life. While I’ve had gradual ebb and flows in the past, this felt like an epiphany. I looked in the mirror and saw that I had been holding on quietly, even without realizing it. 8 months after getting that letter from my ex, it finally brought all of those buried feelings to the surface. Writing the song became my natural way of looking back on the hesitation I had felt, while also burdening that very pain of finally turning away. That very moment at 3 am, the weight of just letting go despite caring so intensely, is what formed the song from the start. And honestly, that emotional core stayed the same from beginning to end. In my eyes, finishing the song helped me gain the courage to fully step into that goodbye. 

How did growing up in Stratford, Connecticut and now living in Raleigh shape your creative lens?

Growing up in Stratford gave me ample amount of time for deep connections with solitude and reflection. It’s a coastal town that mostly keeps to itself, so naturally, I just found myself spending a lot of time in my own thoughts, writing, whether it was poetry or stories, observing, and processing my own life internally. Stratford is not really known for its creative scene, so before I even knew I’d be chasing this passion for artistry, I kinda naturally was carving out my creative world on my own–either by playing the piano, or singing, or doing both! That sorta sense of isolation shaped how personal my music is now. It taught me to sit with my emotions and allow for space to breathe. Moving to Raleigh, however, gave me the best contrast I didn’t know I needed. In true butterfly effect fashion, the decision to study at North Carolina State University played a monumental role in the reinitiation of this infatuation for all facets of music making, and more importantly, the very fact that I call myself an artist today. It also introduced me to a very diverse city and culture, one that’s extremely creatively open. I even began meeting and hearing of Raleigh and NC-bred artists who effortlessly push boundaries and blend genres. In so many complex ways, being here at Raleigh has challenged me to grow–technically, mentally, spiritually, and emotionally, and helped me realize that I’m kinda not just writing for myself anymore. I’m creating something that hopefully others can feel themselves in too. All in all, Raleigh helped unlock an evolved version of me that allows me to be this connected with my process. And that shift, from internal to shared expression, is definitely something being here in this city unlocked. 

You cite influences like d4vd, Frank Ocean, and Joji. What have you learned from those artists about bending genre?

Those artists all contribute such unique and beautiful takeaways to the music industry. I’ve learned from them that genre shouldn’t be in a box. It’s a form of language that you can bend, break, and reconfigure to simply serve emotion. D4vd, for one, moves effortlessly from raw indie kinda textures to some dark R&B tones, but it still feels together and cohesive since it's emotionally direct and honest. Frank Ocean changed the way of writing “vulnerable” in popular music. He made the silence, the textures, and the tension all a part of a message. And Joji has such cinematic emotion that truly resonates with me, like the way he uses space and softness to say something loud. From D4vd, Frank Ocean, and Joji, I learned that you shouldn’t feel like you have to pick a side. You can be ambient and pop, lo-fi and polished, sad and romantic, all at the same time. That kind of freedom opened the world to me, and let my songs grow naturally based on just feeling instead of placing them in a box. “i can’t” is a representation of that. It doesn’t follow just one formula, and that’s the way I intended it to be. 

Can you tell us a bit about how your Eritrean-American identity weaves into your music, either lyrically or sonically?

Being Eritrean-American means I’m consistently living in the in-between. Between cultures, expectations, and, honestly, ways of expressing emotion. That tension naturally flows into my music, even when I’m not trying to make it obvious. My Eritrean heritage is rooted in strength, pride, and resilience, but the language for emotional vulnerability was, for the most part of my life, hard to find. Music became the dominating space where I could express things I didn’t always feel safe saying out loud. While yes, my music leans into more Western styles like indie, alt-pop, and R&B sonically, the spirit of my heritage is still there, in the sense of longing, reflection, and quiet strength. I think there’s also a deep melodic intuition I picked up from Habesha music, the way emotion is carried within the tone and phrasing, and not just the lyrics. While I may not sample my motherland’s language or sounds directly (YET), my identity is always presented with the way I feel through a song. 

What was the writing or recording process like for “i can’t”? Was it a quick burst or something more layered over time?

The recording actually came first. I was messing around with some guitar chords that night, following some somber progression that felt like it was aligning with something I couldn’t name yet. That same wake-up call I had, that it was finally time to move on, was still extremely fresh. And I think my hands just found the emotion before my voice could. From that point, the production flowed naturally. I still wanted to keep everything mostly minimal and spacious, because honestly, those first chords alone already felt like they were saying a thousand words. It felt really intimate, and I did not want to lose that. The craziest part is, I didn’t even fully realize that I was writing a goodbye until the vocals started coming in. It truly was the first time in my songwriting journey that I wasn’t building from some kinda concept or some metaphor. I was just telling the truth, and exactly how I felt it. No facade, no pretending. Everything had been written within a straight session of 2 hours at that point(started around 9 am), but in a way that was truly delicate and intentional. Then, all throughout the day I had been mixing the alternate version of the song. It wasn’t until maybe 4-5pm, around mix version 15 or 20, that I realized I needed to

lengthen the ending of the song, and I remembered a voice memo of my ex I’d used in the beginning of a song that’ll probably never see the light of day, and it genuinely just clicked. That voice note became my ending statement, and part of the final version. Looking back, it really started so unintentionally, but within a day, slowly and carefully grew around the emotional core. Once I realized what I was saying, every decision, layer, lyric, and chord became about preserving that honesty. 

“i can’t” feels personal. Is it about a specific experience, or does it represent a more universal emotion for you?

It is absolutely coming from a specific experience. The core of the entire song is stemming from my response to a real, 6 page letter from my ex, asking if there was still a chance for us to rekindle. I got that letter around last October, and it was genuinely terrible to try and think about conjuring a response that wouldn’t hurt anyone in the end. I got so caught up in fear of figuring out how I was going to grow from this, that I had never responded to her. But I found my voice, and my courage through “i can’t”. In the process of writing this song, I realized how universal that moment is. The feeling of loving someone so damn deeply but knowing that going back would mean betraying the growth you’ve fought your life for. “I can’t” is the pure representation of the emotional weight and pain of that kind of goodbye. It’s not the spiteful, dramatic kind, but the quiet, and honest kind, that hurts that much more. 

So while it started as something personal to my core, I think it speaks to anyone who’s had to break away from something familiar in order to protect who they are becoming. While it’s heartbreaking, it’s also about clarity, and the pain that comes with choosing yourself. 

When you’re making music, do you start with lyrics, melodies, production, or does it vary?

It varies a lot for sure, but most songs I’ve fallen in love during and after all start with sound. Either a chord progression, a texture, rhythm, or even a tone that ignites something emotionally. With “i can’t”, it started with the guitar. It unlocked a feeling within me before I even figured out what I wanted to do with it. Once I find that emotion within me, melody almost always comes naturally to me next, and then the lyrics flow in as a way to construct the residual feeling into something tangible. 

While that’s how most of my songs are developed, oftentimes I find myself being inspired by my life, or a movie or show, and in that moment a phrase or sentence might hit me out of nowehere and I write it down in my phone to revisit it. But yes, in general, the sound leads my creation. I almost need to feel the space emotionally in order to complement the atmosphere with words. 

Your songs are often described as cinematic. If “i can’t” were a scene in a film, what would that look like?

It would start with a scene where everything is quiet. It’s tense, no dialogue, and just the weight of unspoken truth. I picture someone lying in a dimly lit room, phone tossed aside with a voicemail on loop, maybe late at night with that letter held in one hand. There’s warmth in the lighting, but a heaviness in the air. Like the love is present within the room, but it’s no longer enough to hold on to. The camera lingers as the song progresses, Memories are cut in between scenes, and the present is showing the person break down more, and more, and more as the song reaches its climax. Knowing that the burden of pain they’re enduring is the only way out. The camera never says too much. You just see it, and feel it.

“I can’t” would be the soundtrack to that moment. Not loud or dramatic, but slow, devastating, and deeply human. It’s the very scene that replays in your head because you’ve gone through some version of it yourself. 

Mr. Trapp, your second-grade music teacher, played a pivotal role in your journey. What do you think he’d say about your work now?

I’d hope that he’d say the same thing he said then; that he sees something within me. All throughout my time interacting with and creating music, it’s rooted back into the memories I’ve shared learning from him. I think he’d be proud too. Not because I kept going with music, but because I’ve unlocked a way to make it personal and meaningful. He was the very first person I remember encouraging me to keep this love in my life, and that music was more than just a class to get through, its a form of language. Connection. Expression. That stuck with me. If he heard “i can’t”, I think he’d understand the heart behind it. Back in our music class, he always pushed for honesty in expression, despite the fact that we were kids just learning the recorder and singing together. That foundation formed the way I approach songwriting today. It’s from a place of truth and no performative act. I think he’d say I’m doing what I’m meant to do, and honestly, that would mean everything to me. 

Bedroom pop often thrives on rawness and intimacy. How do you preserve that feeling as your production becomes more polished?

For me, I think about my intention. As I inevitably evolve and my production shifts, I will never want to lose the emotional footprint of my songs. In my eyes, rawness doesn’t just come from a particular sound, it also comes from its honesty. That might even mean leaving a subjectively imperfect vocal take, or allowing for space and silence to speak louder than the lyrics. I will always want to preserve those human instances even as my mixes become more and more “industry standard”. 

With “i can’t,” the production stayed minimal, with the guitar dominating most of the song’s sound and light layers of pianos and pads supporting the progression of the emotional journey. It also has a cinematic flair, as I brought in strings and a strong bass presence towards the end of the song to signify the heightened emotions all without cluttering or overwhelming the sound. Every last element was intentionally chosen to highlight the intimacy of the track, and not to distract from the message. Even as I may explore fuller, more textured sounds, I make certain that my core always will feel like something coming from a quiet room. Personal, vulnerable, and close. 

What’s the most vulnerable lyric or moment in “i can’t” for you personally?

The most vulnerable part of “i can’t” is easily when the voice memo for the outro comes in. Hearing her voice at the end, encouraging me, and believing in my craft–her words stayed with me. I added it in because it captured the love that existed once within our time in such a raw and honest way. Having it in the song was painful, and scary, but it created a powerful contrast. Her deep care for me against the reality of having to still walk away in order to grow. It made the goodbye feel even more real, and harder. 

Lyrically, the line “I gotta take the time to live a little, my selfish ways, I know I’ve hurt you never calling back” is one that hurts the most for me personally. There’s so much guilt and regret, but also truth. That line helped me actualize the fact that there will be some times where doing what’s best for your life means hurting someone you love, and understanding how to sit with that. 

Raleigh has a growing creative scene. How has being based there impacted your artistry or community?

Being in Raleigh has truly grounded me in a unique way. It’s a city that’s still growing into it’s signature creative identity, and I feel that that’s mirrored how I’ve grown as a person and artist. I’ve met so many genuine, talented, and driven people here. Collaborators, friends, and fellow musicians, who are all carving their own paths with intention. The kind of energy I feel here has kept me inspired, and reminds me that there is so much space to explore who I am without conforming to a mold. It’s also where I started to learn how to record, produce, and mix from my bedroom, building my sound from ground zero. That DIY-Bedroom-esque vibe in Raleigh has shaped me so much more than I’ve realized. It taught me that the perfect setup won’t always tell a story that resonates. But honesty, time, and heart reigns true. 

You’ve carved out a sound that resists easy categorization. How do you keep creative freedom at the center of your process?

For me, creative freedom begins with my truth. I rarely think about genre or trends when I even think about beginning a song. I just let my emotion choose the direction. That’s my intention behind protecting my honesty. Sometimes it may lean cinematic, sometimes its minimal and raw, and sometimes its intense. But it is ALWAYS coming from something I’m genuinely feeling and going through. 

I also try not to over-edit and complicate in the early recording stages. I’ve found that some of my favorite moments come from the first few imperfect takes, the ones that send dopamine and adrenaline all throughout my body. Staying free means allowing for those moments to live. I don’t ever want to polish away the pain or the beauty that follows suit. 

Looking ahead, how does “i can’t” set the tone for what’s next in your journey as an artist?

“i can’t” is and will forever be the pivotal turning point for me and my artistry, both emotionally and creatively. It’s the first time in my career where I’ve released something that has been this brutally bare and honest, without trying to hide behind a facade or production. It showed me that my most powerful and captivating songs come from being unfiltered, no matter the discomfort. From here on out, I’m chasing this feeling of vulnerability. I’m making music that feels like a timestamp of where my life currently is. I’m not fit to stay in a mold or doing what’s expected of me sonically. “i can’t” reminded me that the strength I hold lies in sitting in the tension that lies between atmosphere and vulnerability, and allowing my songs to breathe in its own way. Whatever song I decide to come next will hold that same level of intention and honesty.

Listen to “i can’t” here.