know thy enemy
GRACE
Co-Founder
Writer, Interview Curation
Grew up on the water in Rhode Island; running barefoot on docks, singing in grocery store aisles, and wondering why some songs felt like they already knew her. Raised on hand-me-down guitars, her dad’s yacht rock, and a healthy amount of daydreaming. She’s a self-taught musician drawn to the kinds of artists whose sounds stretch the edges of her mind; the Beatles, Fleetwood Mac, Les Paul, Jeff Buckley, and the Beach Boys.
Her style is emotion-led, and best described as making a feeling out of thin air. Music wasn’t always the plan, but at times, it felt like the only thing that made sense.
The kind of person who takes pictures of pedalboards like they’re art, overanalyzes lyrics like they’re secret messages, and explains things philosophically to people who didn’t ask and somehow never walk away.
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Currently working on a song that exists somewhere between goodbye and hope.
Was there a moment that you felt like music understood you before people did?
I spent a lot of my adolescence living in my imagination. I isolated myself without fully understanding why, just trying to make sense of feelings I didn’t have words for. I didn’t realize, back then, that it was possible to feel less alone even when you’re by yourself. One day, I picked up a guitar, and I don’t think I’ve ever really put it down since. I learned by ear, using the same imagination I hadn’t known what to do with for years.
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I made my mom play this scratched-up Elvis Presley CD every single day on the way to school. There was one song, “In the Ghetto.” It skipped in all the same places, but I didn’t care. Something about it invited me into this strange, quiet realm of peace. I didn’t understand it at the time. I just knew it made me feel something I couldn’t name. I didn’t know music could do that to you. That it could get under your skin, take over your whole body. I connected to it in this deep, almost physical way, like it was part of my atomic makeup. Like a tingle. That song was so special to me. It still is.
What part of the Enemy feels most personal to you?
Definitely the interviews. I’ve always listened to music like it’s trying to tell me something, paying attention to the little things. That’s how I connect with people, through sound. Now I get to sit across from artists and ask what those moments meant to them.
If the Enemy is a love letter, who are we writing it to?
I think I’m writing it to anyone who’s ever doubted themselves but kept going anyway. That’s who I have in mind when I write: people who feel too much, overthink everything, or feel like they’re always one step behind. People who don’t always say the right thing, but mean every word. There’s something beautiful in being unfiltered, anxious, unsure, and still drawn to music like it knows you. I want those people to feel seen. To know they’re not alone in it. If anything I write helps someone feel understood or a little more grounded in their own chaos, then I’ve done what I came to do.
What’s something about Grace that inspires you creatively? Answered by Sierra
Grace’s eloquence with words inspires me in the way that makes me feel understood without having said a thing. She has a rare ability to translate feelings into language, like she’s gently handing me a mirror to my soul. This level of empathy almost becomes a sixth sense when she’s interviewing others, making people feel safe enough to tell the truth, staying wise enough to hear what’s not being said. Grace provides a kind of creative partnership I didn’t know I was missing, holding space for even the craziest ideas with a quiet boldness.
We seem to create from the same emotional terrain, which is why it feels incredibly natural to build something together. There's a rhythm to our connection; it almost doesn’t make sense that there was a point where we didn't know each other. Since our very first exchange of words, it’s felt like the universe handed me a creative soulmate and said 'Here. This one gets it'.
SIERRA
Co-Founder
Photographer
Born in Pennsylvania and raised in Indiana on a steady stream of ‘70s rock CDs, Irish festivals, and a desperate need to feel something, Sierra’s musical story started early—as the eldest child in a family where music was bloodline. She got her first Yamaha keyboard at five, and from that moment on, there was no turning back (no matter how many times her mom begged her to please stop singing like someone's being exorcised in the next room).
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She briefly attended the jazz program at Indiana University's Jacob's School of Music, mostly to follow the call of the upright bass, confirm she was never built for the classroom, then drop out with style. Formal training was never the point. Guided more by instinct than ambition, Sierra makes music like it's a memory trying to surface.
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Her sound is rooted in gritty vocals, punchy melodies, and basslines that strut with funk. Think vintage soul thrown in the back of a touring van with indie rock and dusty Americana—always chasing the next good song, strange feeling, or moment of sonic catharsis.
Was there a moment that you felt like music understood you before people did?
I remember hearing “Free Fallin’” by Tom Petty on the radio for the first time when I was four years old. We were driving past endless Indiana cornfields, the windows down, wind rushing through my hair. I didn’t know what freedom meant yet, but somehow this song gave me a taste of it. The way it moved was easy, aching, and alive. That night, I begged my parents to play the song again, but they had no idea what I was talking about. I was pissed. So I sang it for them, the best way I could: “Now I’m freeeeeee, FREE FORRED.” They laughed, but I was dead serious. I felt that song in my soul.
In all seriousness, music understood me long before people ever really did. And honestly, it still does. When I play my instruments or sing in the car as passionately as I want, it feels like I’m speaking the truest version of myself. No explaining–just pure, unfiltered emotion. There’s something truly magical in the way a song, or even a single chord, can say what I’ve carried for years, cracking open feelings I didn’t even know were there. Music to me is connection, safety, healing. It’s always been the place I can be fully myself, long before I found the words to tell anyone else who that was.
What part of the Enemy feels most personal to you?
The combination of some of my truest loves–music, photography, and connecting with others in a way that feels simultaneously intimate and electric. There’s a feeling I chase in life that is hard to describe, but it’s somewhere between deep nostalgia and raw presence. It’s when the chorus of a song hits you at just the right time, or a photograph captures something no words could (or at least mine couldn’t). Enemy is personal to me because it’s rooted in the way I’ve always experienced the world–through sound, image, and connection that doesn’t require explanation.
What’s something about Sierra that inspires you creatively? Answered by Grace
Sierra’s presence feels like getting a hug from my mom; safe, steady, and warm in that way that makes you feel like you can finally exhale. Creatively, she gives me the kind of space where I can be messy. I can sing off-key until I land on something that feels right, or throw out an idea that’s not fully there yet, and she never makes me feel like I’m too much. There’s no pressure to get it right the first time. Just trust.
She has this sensitivity I admire, like she can hear not just the notes I’m playing, but the feeling behind them. Whatever instrument I pick up, she meets me in the emotion of it. That’s not something you can teach. I think we have a kind of karmic link. The first time we met, I remember saying something corny like, “Oh, we’ve definitely met before… in another life.” But honestly, it felt true. There’s just a wavelength to how we create together that feels familiar, like we were meant to find each other in this one.
If the Enemy is a love letter, who are we writing it to?
Enemy would be a love letter to the kid who stays up all night with their headphones on because that's the only place they feel understood. To those who take advantage of never quite fitting by finding the beauty in it. To people who feel music before analyzing it, the community we're building, and anyone who may need a place to land and doesn't know where to look. To my past, present, and future self--to prove that I'm not alone in the way I see the world.
