Why I Write Songs for Strangers

How songwriting becomes a ritual of remembrance—for those I’ve never met

I’ve written songs for my wife, my father, my homeland. Each one carries a thread of memory, a flicker of longing, a moment I needed to honor. But some of my most powerful offerings were written for people I’ve never met. Strangers. Listeners I’ll never know. Souls who might stumble upon a lyric and feel seen.

Because grief is universal. Because longing doesn’t need a name. Because music reaches places conversation cannot. When I write, I imagine the listener who needs it most—the one sitting alone in their room, searching for something that understands them. I don’t need to know their story. I just need to offer mine, in case it helps them carry theirs.

There’s a sacred mystery in writing for someone you’ll never meet. It’s like lighting a candle in the dark and trusting that someone, somewhere, will see the glow. That’s why I write songs like She Wanted Me—not to impress, but to release. To let the ache become melody. To let the memory become a gift.

Some songs arrive with a specific voice in mind. Others wait for the right throat to carry them. I’ve written songs that feel like they belong to Steven Tyler, not me. I’ve written hymns that feel like they were meant for a grieving mother, a wandering son, a stranger who’s lost someone they can’t forget.

In this sanctuary, songs aren’t just entertainment. They’re rituals. They’re offerings. They’re ways of saying: “You’re not alone.” Whether it’s a rock anthem, a whispered poem, or a hymn for the broken-hearted, each one is a candle lit in remembrance.

And if a stranger finds it—if they hear the lyric and feel less alone—that’s enough. That’s the purpose. That’s the ritual.

This sanctuary is for them. For you. For all of us who carry stories in our bones. For the ones who’ve lost, loved, wandered, and waited. For the ones who need a song to remember what matters.