8/10
There are albums that feel like confessions, albums that feel like conversations, and, every so often, albums that feel like the moment someone finally steps into their own light. 'To Believe I’m the Sun', the debut full-length from Pacific Northwest singer-songwriter Meredith Adelaide, is the latter: a tender, slow-burning bloom of self-recognition, stitched together with folk intimacy and emotional precision.
Across eight tracks, Adelaide traces the winding path toward self-regard with a clarity that never sacrifices vulnerability. Her unadorned yet full of quiet force voice sits at the centre like a lantern flame, illuminating the shadows of self-doubt without ever extinguishing them. You sense an artist refusing to shrink, even while acknowledging the tremors under her skin.
She opens with 'Big Songs', a meditation on ambition that feels almost whispered into a cold morning. The lyric about wanting grandeur while hiding your own magnitude reads like a thesis for the entire album: yearning colliding with hesitation. From there, 'One Foot Out' descends into flickering unease, exploring a liminal space where departure and belonging coexist.
'Pushing Out' shifts gears with a surprising spark, unveiling earthy guitar accents and a pulse that signals a turning point. It’s the sound of someone clearing emotional debris, choosing renewal with grit rather than softness. 'Guard Dog' then hushes everything again, peeling back to the bone. It’s one of the album’s most devastating pieces: a study in the strange, instinctual ways we protect ourselves, even when we don’t fully understand what we’re keeping out.
The middle stretch aches beautifully. 'Lights On' hums with late-night vulnerability, tracing the outline of abandonment through simple details. 'I Want It Back' plunges deeper into memory, heavy with the longing to reclaim something that has already slipped out of reach. Lost drifts gently, airy and dreamlike, capturing the strange comfort in not having answers yet. It’s the emotional exhale the record needs before its final confession.
Closing track 'What Do I Know' is a candid acceptance of uncertainty that becomes strangely empowering. Instead of pretending to have everything figured out, Adelaide chooses to move anyway. And that choice becomes the album’s true climax.
What makes 'To Believe I’m the Sun' so powerful is its conviction. Adelaide approaches each song with the patience of a craftsperson. Her work recalls the emotional honesty of Joni Mitchell, the sharp introspection of Adrienne Lenker, and the bare-room clarity of Ani DiFranco, yet she stands fiercely on her own.
This is an album built from late nights, lived grief, and the long work of coming home to oneself. By the time the final note fades, you truly believe that she has become the sun at its heart.
