In September 2024, Hurricane Helene completely flooded my home in Marshall, North Carolina. I lost nearly everything I owned.

By some strange miracle, my wooden-framed bed floated upward with the rising water until it became lodged against the ceiling. A few of my belongings were sitting on top of it and were miraculously untouched, including my nylon-string guitar—the instrument that has held me through so much heartbreak and helped me write some of my most meaningful songs.

It's insane to me that she survived.

My family and my community survived too. I am forever moved by the way everyone so strongly and compassionately showed up for one another, pushed through it all, and still are.

Watching the place that shaped me face so much devastation was really hard to process. I have struggled with BPD, and a slew of mental health issues, for as long as I can remember. The sudden and surreal grief that the flood brought on was really difficult to know what to do with.

So I did what I have always done when I don’t know what else to do:

I wrote songs.

I poured everything I had into writing and ended up making a whole album—a record about grief, survival, destructive pain, hope, and finding the will to rebuild and keep going.

The album is finished. (And has been.)

Mixed. Mastered. Ready to be released.

As she has for my last four albums, my mom painted the cover by hand. It has been finished for about a year now. Her artwork has always been part of the visual story of my records—not because it is her job, but because she loves me and believes in what I have to say.

It has been indescribably painful to feel this album just sitting there, finished, while I have been waiting and negotiating its freedom.

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Before the flood, I moved from Saddle Creek Records and signed with a bigger record label because I hoped that their resources and experience would help me grow as an artist and move into the next chapter of my career.

I gave it my absolute all– but over time, I came to realize that the relationship was not aligned with my values. I wasn’t feeling positive growth. Things felt harder—harder to work, harder to create, harder to manage my mental health, and harder to stay connected and true to my spirit as an artist and person. I felt a centering around business, money, and bureaucracy in a way that I had not experienced before.

I felt like I couldn't move, and it made me sick. I knew I had made a mistake and that I couldn’t thrive in that kind of work environment.

So I made the decision to ask if I could terminate my deal.

Walking away from a record deal is not something artists are generally expected to do—because it is not an easy thing at all. Prince literally changed his name to an unpronounceable symbol in 1993 to protest the restrictive control of his record label. He is one of the brave, famous artists in our history who had the balls to speak out about his experience within the music industry.

No matter what size artist you are, the contracts make it intricately difficult to leave.

But I knew I had to, and thought maybe the feeling was even somewhat mutual.

I have now been trying to negotiate my way out of my deal for a painfully long time and the process has become one of the most demoralizing experiences of my life. It is devastating to have this album caught in a holding space while I try to reacquire the rights to the songs.

I had hoped to release this record on the second anniversary of the flood this year. That date came and went, and I didn't get to share the album. I cried so much that day. I wanted to give the songs back to my community in western North Carolina—to share something that came directly out of processing what we had survived together—and instead, I was still waiting for permission to move.

I have been trying to reach an agreement with the label that will allow me to leave and release this album independently. I have offered to repay every cent they invested in the making of this record.

That is a huge part of why I am creating this campaign. I need to raise the money to repay that investment so that I can get this album back and release it independently, without having to go into more debt or sign another contract with another big corporation just to be able to make my own music.

I don't want to spend the rest of my life making music inside a system where someone else owns the rights to everything I do, where every song or collaboration has to pass through layers and layers of checks and balances before I can share it, and where I am not truly free to put out music when I want to, how I want to, and in a way that feels right to me and to my community. I have learned the hard way that I’m not meant for traditional cycles.

When I ask you to help me raise $90,000, I am not just asking you to fund an album. I am asking you to help me get out of this situation—to repay the money invested in this record, secure ownership of the songs,-- finally set them free, and help me toward a future of making albums independently.

I don't believe artists should have to go through things like this in order to be allowed to move forward. And unfortunately, this kind of story is not new. Artists have been navigating versions of this imbalance for generations.

I know now that I need to fight for a different future—not just for myself, but for artists everywhere.

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My name is Indigo De Souza.

I started writing songs when I was nine years old, growing up in western North Carolina.

I learned to play guitar from Rhonda Gouge, a bluegrass musician, and some of the first songs I learned were old Carter Family standards. My mom gave me a Tascam four-track for Christmas when I was nine, and I would record songs in my bedroom, completely unaware that a music industry even existed.

When I was eleven, I started playing in bars and cafes, on the streets for passers-by, and in local songwriting circles. I was extremely shy. Singing in front of people terrified me.

But once I found the courage to share my voice (thanks to lots of push from my mom), I noticed something that changed my life forever:

I could see the songs echoed in other people's faces. Something I had written completely alone– could bring a room full of strangers together. Songs could keep people company. They could help people process and heal.

I knew I would spend my life committed to this very tangible and important thing.

The relationship between my art and the people who listen to it has always been one of the most meaningful parts of my life. Some of the greatest gifts I have ever received have been hearing that a song helped someone through a difficult moment, made them feel understood, or became part of their own story.

The songs I write are not complete until they find their way into the lives of other people.

It’s so important to me to protect that connection.

My hope is that this campaign doesn't only help this album’s freedom. My hope is that it protects the future of the nine-year-old girl who started writing songs alone in her bedroom because she believed, without question, that what she was doing meant something.

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If this campaign raises more than its goal, every additional dollar will go toward creating future music independently and building a sustainable path forward.

Whether you are able to contribute financially, share this campaign, or simply continue listening and being part of this community, I am deeply grateful.

Everything I have created has been possible because of the people who have believed in me—my family, the artists and mentors who encouraged me, the communities that shaped me, and every person who has listened to my songs and allowed them to become part of their own lives.

I am especially grateful to the community in western North Carolina that helped shape me as an artist. The musicians, mentors, friends, and venues that welcomed a very shy, young songwriter and gave me room to experiment, learn, perform, and find my voice. Places like Echo Mountain Studios, Drop of Sun, and The Mothlight became part of the foundation of my journey simply because they believed in me before anyone knew where it would lead.

That kind of belief has meant more to me than I can fully express.

Thank you for hearing the songs I sing.

Thank you for helping me protect my voice.

This world is completely insane.

I send love in all directions, every single day.

—Indigo De Souza