Body Between Stories

Having grown up in musical theatre, Elliot first made a name for himself as a child, landing major roles before he was even old enough to drive. But fame, when it comes too soon, can sometimes feel like borrowed light. "I kind of peaked when I was fifteen," he laughs, half-joking, half-true. Then came Covid. A halted career. A world that stopped spinning. And Elliot, like so many others, was left trying to piece himself back together in a time when nothing made sense. "I was in my childhood bedroom, trying to write these stupid songs, and nothing really worked for me. It got so toxic. Music was supposed to be my escape, but it became this source of sadness." The pressure to perform, to create, to be something, crushed the joy he once found in music. For a while, he considered walking away entirely.

But Elliot doesn’t do things halfway. Even when he stepped back from music, enrolling in drama school just to catch his breath, the creativity never really left him. Instead, it reshaped itself. These days, he’s doing things differently. Independently. Authentically. "I love doing the artist thing now," he says with a knowing smile. "It’s like a challenge, but the good kind. I’m surrounded by people I trust, but I also have the freedom to decide what I want to do." Gone are the oversized label meetings and the faceless industry pressure. In their place: late-night notes app confessions, nostalgic surf rock, and songs that feel like pages torn from a journal.

Performing, for Elliot, is no longer an act. It’s a reveal. "When I sing, that’s the most vulnerable I can be. I write really honest lyrics, and performing them feels like showing a part of myself I usually keep hidden." Vulnerability, he says, is something he’s still learning to be okay with. But in that rawness lies the beauty of his work—it's what connects him to listeners, and what makes his art feel so lived-in and real.

When life feels overwhelming, Elliot turns inward—towards breathwork, yoga, and the quiet presence of his mum and grandmother, whom he affectionately refers to as his “gurus.” But it’s his older sister, his self-described guardian angel, who brings him the deepest sense of calm. “She just knows. She gets me in a way no one else does,” he says, smiling softly at the thought.

Of course, the chaos still creeps in. There are days when the weight of overthinking becomes too much, when studio sessions are cancelled at the last minute, and when the pressure to be everything all at once begins to unravel his sense of control. But Elliot is learning, in his own time, how to offer himself grace. He’s figuring out how to pause, how to protect his energy, and how to make peace with the fact that not having all the answers is sometimes part of the process.

His creative inspiration doesn’t follow a fixed path. It arrives through the pages of a Patti Smith book, the saturated mood of a Tarantino film, or the fleeting depth of a conversation with a stranger. “Being interested instead of acting interesting,” he says—a quiet philosophy that guides the way he moves through the world, rooted in curiosity rather than performance.

When he imagines his future self looking back at this version of who he is now, there’s no desire for perfection or accolades—only a quiet hope. “I just want to be proud” - proud of the music he’s

made, the achievements he’s earned, and the growth he’s allowed himself to go through. “I just want to keep creating things that feel like me.” Elliot isn’t chasing recognition or approval.

It’s quite clear to see that to Elliot, fame isn’t the most important thing; being truthful is. Truth in the music he writes, the stories he tells, and the person he’s still learning to become. And maybe that’s what makes him so quietly compelling. He’s not trying to be anyone else. He’s simply trying to be someone entirely, unapologetically himself. Still becoming. Still unfolding. And in that space between, something quietly extraordinary is taking shape.