Remember me
For a long time, I believed the easiest way to describe myself was through titles. Pianist. Singer. Producer. Songwriter. They gave me identity and a sense of certainty. Without them, I wasn’t sure who I was.
Lately, I’ve been trying to get closer to the person behind those titles. It isn’t easy. I think many artists spend years defining themselves through what they create instead of simply existing. I’m still learning how to separate the two.
I grew up in Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina, surrounded by music from the very beginning. Classical piano became my first language long before songwriting did. But before I ever thought of myself as a musician, I was a performer.
I spent my childhood dancing, performing in regional dance competitions and television shows broadcast on national TV. When I was only five years old, I won third place at Mali Šlager, Bosnia and Herzegovina’s largest children’s singer-songwriter competition. Looking back, I think my performer’s instinct was born through dance. Dance taught me how to communicate without words, how to connect with an audience through movement, emotion, and presence. Music came later, but the stage always felt like home.
As I grew older, my studies took me across Europe, from Ljubljana to Budapest and the Netherlands, and every move reshaped me in unexpected ways.
“I do recognize a certain melancholy that lives somewhere inside me.”
Leaving home always meant leaving behind routines, familiar faces, and the comfort of knowing exactly who I was supposed to be. In a new city, nobody knows you. There is no role to perform and no expectations to live up to. That can feel lonely, but it is also incredibly freeing. Every new place has allowed me to question old versions of myself and slowly build new ones.
Looking back, I think I knew surprisingly early that music would become my life. When I was thirteen, I filmed my first music video with Oscar-winning Bosnian director Danis Tanović. I still remember the feeling of standing in front of the camera and performing. It wasn’t excitement or pride, it was recognition. In that moment, I knew without question that this was what I was made to do.
My songwriting never begins in the studio. It usually starts somewhere ordinary: while waiting for coffee, walking to the academy, reading a sentence in a book, or simply watching people pass by. A melody appears unexpectedly, sometimes together with a lyric, and I rush to the piano before it disappears. I don’t force ideas; they arrive when they want to.
One of the greatest gifts in my creative life is working with my father, musician Muhamed Trnka. We challenge each other constantly. He mixes and masters my music, plays guitars, and is often my first and most honest critic. Having someone who understands both the emotional and technical sides of music is something I never take for granted.
People often assume songs come from happiness, but for me it’s usually the opposite.
When life feels perfectly balanced, I rarely write. It is disappointment, uncertainty, longing, or the gap between imagination and reality that pushes me toward the piano. I wouldn’t call myself a sad person, but I do recognize a certain melancholy that lives somewhere inside me. Maybe it is even self-inflicted. It helps me process the world around me, the society I live in, and my own thoughts.
“I don’t force ideas; they arrive when they want to.”
My new single, U Don’t Know, grew out of exactly that feeling. It asks what happens when someone fails to truly see you. At first, it sounds almost playful, maybe even slightly passive-aggressive: if you didn’t care enough to know me, now you won’t know anything about me at all. But underneath that is something much more vulnerable: the disappointment that comes when reality doesn’t meet the version of it we imagined and expected.
Writing songs allows me to transform those emotions into something lighter. Music has become less about finding answers and more about accepting how things unfold and confidently believing that everything works out in my best interest.
As a classically trained musician, I spent years connecting my worth to achievement. Concerts, competitions, exams, perfect performances — they become part of your identity before you even realize it. Only recently have I started asking myself who I am when none of those things are there.
The answer is still unfolding.
My life naturally moves in cycles. There are periods of complete silence when I feel the need to step back, reflect, and simply observe. Then there are periods of intense creativity, when songs seem to appear one after another and everything feels alive again.
Right now, I can feel another one of those waves approaching.
I’m excited to follow wherever it takes me.
