Q&A: Kaleah Lee on Fear, Self-Reckoning, and Her New Single “What Are You So Afraid Of?”
INTERVIEW
INTERVIEW
☆ BY NICOLE NGO ☆
Photo by Halle Jean March
AT THE HEART OF KALEAH LEE’S SONGWRITING IS THE POETICS OF OBSERVATION — small details, half-formed questions, carefully tended silences. Hers is a practice of emotional fidelity, of personal reflection, soft urgency and a reverence for lyrical and sonic restraint. Her songs often begin in spaces of internal stillness. She speaks of needing to feel "safe and dialled inward,” before anything can take shape. This attentiveness articulates itself through her artistry. Influenced by the fluid, emotional landscapes of artists such as Bon Iver, Dijon, and Saya Gray, she values sonic malleability and narrative intimacy over formality. Her lyricism is born of voice memos, journal entries, flickers of memory, and observation. A deep reader and writer, her music bears a literary trace, and draws also from poetic inspirations, enabling Lee to cultivate songs that feel private and expansive in equal measure.
Her newest single “What Are You So Afraid Of?” is a distillation of these sensibilities, marking a quiet pivot point in her growing body of work. This release deepens her characteristic exploration of vulnerability as both subject and sonic texture. First performed live on tour with Youth Lagoon, the track feels both ephemeral and rooted, anchored by its titular question - “What are you so afraid of?” Initially written as an attempt to reach someone else, the song evolved into something self-reflective. “I found myself hearing the song as if I was speaking to myself,” Lee reflects, and this doubling back is what becomes its affecting resonance. Written and recorded in a small house in the woods of upstate New York, the track captures a liminal, emotionally charged moment. The result is a friction between vulnerability and resistance, intimacy and isolation. Its lyrical structure is cyclical, its plucked guitar lines skeletal and meditative, imbuing the track with a spiritual, almost incantatory quality, less a linear narrative than an emotional echo chamber. Though just under five minutes, the track expands and contracts like a breath, spiraling gently inwards. Rather than seeking answers, it offers a tender opening, extending an invitation for self-reckoning.
This speaks to the artistic idiosyncrasies that have come to define Lee’s work. Her music is deeply sensory, and dwells in the in-between: between people, between selves, between moments. She weathers resolution, choosing to linger in it, holding tension like a held note. Her lyricism is attuned to sensation — scents, sounds and temperature — shaped by a sensitivity to the physical world around her. Grass fields, smudged light attuned to the shifting interiority, the slow thaw of fear, the surprise of recognition. She draws from ambient soundscapes and melancholic pop traditions but filters them through a diaristic lens. What emerges is a sonic world shaped by deep listening, where nature, memory, and affect blur, and even fear becomes material — alive, mutable, held. There’s a kind of generosity in this restraint.
Following her 2023 debut Birdwatcher and tours alongside Youth Lagoon, Del Water Gap, Kara Jackson, and James Vincent McMorrow, Lee’s latest release signals a creative direction marked by introspection and transformation. She continues to write and record, leaning into both ambient and lyric driven modes, gently pressing at the edges of her own musical identity and exploring the freedom these forms allow. She lets sound hold what words sometimes cannot, yielding an outcome strikingly poetic in itself. Perhaps it is that emotion is inherently poetic, or that the act of tending to it makes it so. Through her masterful grasp of the musical medium, she builds more than songs, but quiet places to return to, for herself and for others. And it is in that lifting, one that is tentative, brave, and unresolved, that Lee finds momentum. This is not forward in a straight line, but inward, toward something honest and alive.
Read on as Kaleah Lee invites us to glimpse the world that shapes her artistry.
LUNA: Congratulations on the release of “What Are You So Afraid Of?” When you release something as personal as new music into the world, how do you typically process that moment?
KALEAH: It’s always a little strange feeling. Definitely exciting, but once a song is at the point of being released, it feels far away from me in the present. Like I wrote the song and started working on production about a year ago! The music is undoubtedly personal, but the time that passes between the song's initial formation and the point of release acts as a sort of emotional buffer or processing time, and lots of processing and acceptance can happen over that period. So, when the actual release rolls around, the excitement for me mostly lives in being fortunate enough to pass the song on to whoever wants to listen and getting to see how its meaning morphs and flows between listeners.
LUNA: The track is deeply vulnerable, less than five minutes of music and yet feels much larger than just that. I think it’s the perpetual question — each time slightly different — that forms this cyclical yet open emotive experience. You have the “dying and coming back,” “resurrection.” I hear a person questioning their own limitations. I hear a person searching for something, then one who has found what they’ve looked for and can’t quite live in that space. Or someone grappling with incredible bouts of feeling. I also hear an outward yearn; maybe an attempt at softening someone else’s walls, calling out to say it is all okay, to love or to feel or to be.
I wanted to know what inspired this song. Did your initial exploration expand or shift as you wrote more, recorded, performed?
KALEAH: Wow, well, everything you said was scarily spot on and very beautifully put, so thank you! I initially wrote this song in a little house, essentially in the woods, in upstate New York where I spent a chunk of time between shows on tour last summer. I had been in the midst of a budding, fleeting, yet transformative relationship with somebody, and there were just a lot of uncertainties around what would come from it all. I was, for the first time, in the position of wanting to throw caution to the wind and felt like I wanted to kind of shake this person out of their own head, and like you said, attempt to soften someone else’s walls. That’s where the song started, but it for sure has taken many different forms and meanings since. I love when songs or words or pieces of art in general are malleable like that, I just think it's very reflective of being a human being. At the core of it all, I know where the song started, but as time went on, working on it, I found myself hearing the song as if I was speaking to myself rather than the person it was initially for, which, at the point of realization, was both jarring and humbling at the same time.
LUNA: What was the process of crafting the track? Lyrically, I can imagine it’s one grounded in observations of the natural world, maybe outside, or through a window? It’s so poetic, as is your body of work entirely.
KALEAH: There was just a lot of intense, moody emotion brewing around this song, at least when it was freshly written. I was in a candle-lit sun room as it was, funnily enough raining out, and I just had my guitar and journal and looked back at something I had just written, like an actual journal entry where in it I wrote the eventual opening line of the song, “So much of life seems to be dying and coming back.” I took that and continued writing around memories with this person, or feelings I felt with them, and it took shape very quickly.
LUNA: Is this how you tend to write?
KALEAH: I don't always remember what exactly the process is like when making songs. It’s different almost every time, and it often blurs and feels out of my control or like it’s coming from something outside myself. I do remember, though, the repeated question portion of the song I had actually recorded in a voice memo a year prior, where I was just singing it over a couple of chords in my bedroom at home. I knew I liked it, and obviously liked it enough for it to float to the front of my mind a year later, but it didn't find a real home until that moment. I remember feeling like the last piece of the puzzle was just handed to me on a white cloth. It was great. But as sporadic and unpredictable as the process is, a constant I’ve found necessary is the sense of feeling quiet. It doesn't literally have to be somewhere quiet, I just have to feel safe and dialled inward enough. I’ve written things in the back seat of cars while driving somewhere with my family, or on walks, or in my bedroom. Observational for sure. I tend to watch and absorb more than I speak, so that's typically the starting point for me.
Photo by Ruth Lee
LUNA: I can sense that observation in the instrumentation actually. The plucking lays this delicate ground beneath your vocals. I know you’ve mentioned personal experience as the crux of your inspiration, and also how the sound itself is shaped by encounters with nature.
I was wondering outside of what you’ve described, who or what has inspired you musically, particularly your more recent sound?
KALEAH: I am always inspired by Bon Iver, as I’m positive many artists are. I think listening to the Bon Iver discography as a whole, and hearing all of the ways the sound has changed and morphed and re-invented itself while also having this consistent, identifiable thing at its core is inspiring for someone like me who feels I am always exploring myself and the ways I hope to present myself to the world, whether that’s through the music I make or things I wear or do or say. I love feeling able to change and grow and pivot freely, so seeing someone do that musically over such a long period, and gracefully, is incredibly inspiring. Other artists with that same type of honesty and grit and fluidity that inspire me are Dijon, Youth Lagoon, who I had the privilege of touring with this past spring, and Saya Gray. I am also very inspired by ambient music right now. No words. Which is different from my typically lyric-driven work. I have just been really enjoying sinking into spaces and landscapes that can be formed sonically. I'm sure there's more I’m missing because I feel there are things of inspiration everywhere, but those are the few that initially come to mind. All incredibly moving for me at the moment.
LUNA: This song, like many of yours, draws — perhaps implicitly — on a vast music canon before and of this time. I love when I hear something that holds echoes of lineage, but also feels new and distinct.
Since beginning this journey, have there been artists or works that have offered you consistent inspiration? Anyone or anything unexpected?
KALEAH: Musically, again, Bon Iver has been a constant since I was pretty young, but really just like… sad music in general. Maybe sad isn't the right word or the sole reason why it was inspiring; it’s really just music that evoked strong emotion and feeling in me. I was five years old, crying to Vienna by Billy Joel because of that one scene in the movie 13 Going on 30 [laughs]. But the song stuck with me ever since because the feeling I got from that scene and the song itself was so visceral. Aside from music and romcoms, I have been a big reader for as long as I can remember. I used to constantly write short stories as a kid because of the way I felt when I was able to enter and exit different worlds while reading a book I enjoyed. It became a form of escape for me, a safe space, and that's carried on until now for sure.
LUNA: That makes perfect sense and I want to ask more about your writing. I had noticed that there’s a literary presence in your lyricism. It feels connected to a rich tapestry of writing and storytelling. I’m a lover of language and am particularly moved by the world that you build. I think you’re contributing profoundly to a canon of the written word as well as song.
Are there any phrases, sentences, quotes, poems, even books that you’ve turned to in times where you’ve been afraid?
KALEAH: Thank you so much for saying that. I revisit Mary Oliver’s poetry quite often, especially in times of fear or uncertainty. There is a gentle, comforting simplicity in her words that is simultaneously soaked with all of these intricacies and just such a profound perspective on the world around her, around us, and it's very grounding and almost meditative to read when things are rocky. A specific poem of hers that comes to mind is titled “May,” originally from her collection “White Pine,” which recalls a thrilling encounter she had with a snake. I had a photo of this poem as my phone lock screen for the longest time because of the last line, which is, “When the thumb of fear lifts, we are so alive.” I remember reading that for the first time and underlining it and wanting to cry and laugh at the same time because it felt so relevant to where I had been. It has made a home in my head ever since.
LUNA: I love Mary Oliver, too. She proves to me that literature, or art more broadly, occupies this role for humanity as a touchstone, or meditation.
In extending that note, the question “What Are You So Afraid Of?” comes to mind. How do you face this question yourself? Whether artistically, and if you don’t mind sharing, in matters of the heart or self?
KALEAH: Honestly, it's often a game of forcing myself to get over myself. It’s like a tough love type of thing, though I am actively working on being more gentle with myself. I am my harshest critic and also a very anxious person; much of the fears and worries I have are ultimately manifestations of this anxiety, which is, at times, a debilitating place to be. Especially being so aware of its existence, yet having difficulty facing it. I have also found that having people around me who I trust and who, I feel, really see me has been such a gift. I have a hard time leaning on other people, but have been fortunate enough to find people who are making it easier to do. It’s always helpful to get different perspectives on situations that feel scary instead of trying to figure it all out on my own. But when all else fails, I always write things out in a journal. It helps me process, and at the end of it, I can sort of take a step back and see the larger scope of it all.
LUNA: I love that writing gives you the ability to zoom out. I never thought about it like that. That grounding often requires the opposite, to actually detach and view from above, or beyond, maybe. You’re clearly a wonderful observer of things and space and time and the world, that’s lovely.
I’m compelled to ask. If you could construct a very detailed scene of this song, and maybe it replicates or embodies a lived memory, what would it be like? Scent, sounds, temperature, season, taste or flavours.
KALEAH: Ooo, I love this. Okay. This all happened during a hot summer, so I’ll start there:
I see everything through a sort of haze, as if someone smudged a fingerprint over a camera lens. Tall grasses, long and golden like wheat or pampas grass, little to no breeze, sitting in the middle of it all, facing something or someone that reflects you in a way. See that as you’d like. No other visible life forms, but certainly audible ones. Birds chirping overhead and in the distance, crickets low and sporadically singing, making their presence known but not seen. A low buzzing in your stomach. Still air, yes, but for a brief moment, there is a warm breeze that shakes the grass around you a little bit. It smells like dirt and the sweetness of sweat and eventual forgiveness. Maybe even a metallic taste from biting your tongue, then proceeding to speak anyway. That’s all I got.
LUNA: That’s more than wonderful. Thank you for that.
There’s a comment on the YouTube video of your lyric visualiser that says the song feels nostalgic, which I’ve seen come up many times when describing your music.
Do you think there’s an element of this song that speaks to a younger or past version of yourself? And I’m curious if music is a vessel through which you often access the past? If so, what does it enable for your present and future self?
KALEAH: Absolutely. Kind of like how I said I love when art is malleable, I find that this happens whether it was intentional or not. This song specifically is a really good example of that because fear has been so prevalent in my life in a multitude of ways, but I have always, somehow, someway been able to get through it. So coming out on the other end of the things I may have feared in the past, I can see this song being something posed to a younger version of myself. Music is most definitely a time-travelling vessel for me. I think it offers perspective. Being able to access such specific moments of the past, that were evidently very valuable to me, valuable enough to write and make a song about, is a pretty trippy thing to do, especially when I don't even think about some of those moments anymore. It shows my present self how much can change. The fleeting and temporary nature of things. It allows me to honestly feel more at ease about my future because there is comfort in knowing that I have no idea how my life could change in a year or two or 10. There is also an uneasiness that can come with that, not only thinking of my own personal future; the state of the world is undeniably scary, but I'm trying to be more positive. It can be hopeful if I let it be hopeful.
LUNA: I resonate with what you mentioned about the fleeting nature of things. And I do think there’s something radical in letting hope exist alongside fear.
Lastly, you’ve come off of tours with Leith Ross & Searows, Del Water Gap and Youth Lagoon respectively, released your debut album Birdwatcher, and numerous singles, including my favorite, “Fever,” in the last couple of years. With the release of this latest single, what do you look forward to for the rest of this year?
KALEAH: Crazy to see all of that lined up in one sentence! I have been working on lots of new music and things of the sort over the past little while that I’m very excited to share! It has been a fun period of creative exploration for me, so I’m looking forward to finishing it up and introducing it in time.
