We recently had the chance to connect with Haven Adara and have shared our conversation below.
Haven, it’s always a pleasure to learn from you and your journey. Let’s start with a bit of a warmup: Who are you learning from right now?
Right now, I am learning from my sister, who I recently moved closer to. Watching her navigate motherhood with grace, humor, and resilience has been a quiet revelation. She’s teaching me about presence, patience, and the kind of strength that doesn’t need to announce itself. There’s something grounding about witnessing her build a life rooted in care and devotion— it’s reminding me that artistry isn’t just found in music, but in everyday moments of love and responsibility.
Can you briefly introduce yourself and share what makes you or your brand unique?
My name is Haven Adara, and I’m a musician, singer-songwriter, and founder of Riversong Design Collective, LLC. I grew up in a small rural town and on a farm, spent my twenties traveling and eventually chased music and creative work in Kansas City. I recently found myself back in the quiet of the country — where the stars feel closer and the songs come easier.
Riversong is my creative home base. It’s a collective that’s supports both my music and my design work. On the music side, I write and perform, collaborate with other artists, and aspire to write for emerging voices in the industry. On the design side, Riversong takes on web projects by request— specializing in custom website builds and design that feels personal, soulful, and story-driven.
After a sabbatical, I recently made the decision to pull my music from Spotify due to their involvement with AI-driven military technology. It was a hard call, but one that felt aligned with my values. I’m not in the process of re-releasing my first EP, a handful of singles, and my most recent album “Pareidolia” on platforms like Tidal and Apple Music. If you feel moved to support, it would mean the world as I step back into the light and share what’s been quietly growing.
Right now, I’m focused on song-writing. I’m exploring venues to perform at, but my hearts really in the writing at the moment. There’s something sacred about crafting songs that speak to people before they even know why.
Riversong is more than a brand— it’s a reflection of a winding road I’ve walked, the stories I carry, and the ones I’m still learning how to tell.
Thanks for sharing that. Would love to go back in time and hear about how your past might have impacted who you are today. Who saw you clearly before you could see yourself?
My Grammy saw me. Fully. Long before I had the words to explain who I was or what I was becoming.
I’ve always been sensitive, deeply aware, and started writing young—tuned into the emotions of the room, the weight of silence, the way people carry their stories. But my Grammy saw the light in me before I even knew it was there. She was a musician, a singer, a dancer, and the kind of woman who could make a whole room feel like home. She taught me to swing dance in the living room, cried when I sang ballads and “Grandma Got Ran Over by a Reindeer” into the karaoke machine perched on the fireplace, and believed in me with a kind of love that felt cinematic— undeniable, unforgettable, and unconditional.
She taught me everything: how to cook, how to curl my hair with overnight rollers, how to iron a shirt, how to make mud pies, how to make friends with just about anyone, how to run wild and free, and how to laugh when life got too serious. She was tender and powerful, soft and strong, and she me permission to be all those things too.
Her ashes were spread over Smithville Lake— our favorite place as a family— and I visit her and my Papa’s tree as often as I can. They both loved me with a depth that shaped my spirit. They taught me that imagination is sacred, that dreams are worth chasing, and that I carry a kind of magic meant to burst into the world.
I carry her with me in every note I sing, every word I write, and every wild idea I dare to follow.
What did suffering teach you that success never could?
Suffering cracked me open in ways success never could. It didn’t polish me— it carved me. It shaped me through the chaos of a broken family, through the ache of divorce that left me questioning stability before I even understood what it meant. I learned early how to read a room, how to sense tension, how to shrink myself to keep the peace. That kind of pain teaches you to be hyper-aware— but it also teaches you to listen. To yourself. To others. To the quiet truths beneath the noise.
I’ve suffered in places far from home, too. Living in another country, surrounded by mass poverty, offering humanitarian help while feeling helpless in the face of so much need. That kind of suffering humbles you. It strips away the illusion of control and forces you to confront your privilege, your limits, and your heart.
I’ve lost a baby. I’ve lost lovers I thought would still be in my life. I’ve lost people I loved deeply— some slowly, some suddenly. Each loss left a different scar. Each one forced me to look inward, to ask hard questions, to sit with grief until it softened into hopefully some sort of wisdom.
Through it all, I chose to heal. I got therapy. I started listening deeper to my inner dialogue— not just the loud, critical parts, but the quiet, intuitive ones. I became aware. Deeply aware of how I move through the world, how I impact others, and how important it is to be humble enough to admit when I’m wrong or when I’ve hurt someone, even unknowingly.
Suffering taught me how to be soft without being weak. How to be strong without being hard. How to hold space for others because I’ve had to hold it for myself. It’s the reason I want to pursue my master’s— to understand the human experience more fully, and to help others navigate their own path with compassion and clarity.
Success might shine on the outside momentarily, even briefly, or in waves, but suffering builds the soul. And mine’s been built with grace, grit, and whole lot of love.
Sure, so let’s go deeper into your values and how you think. What are the biggest lies your industry tells itself?
One of the biggest lies in the music industry is that talent alone is enough. We say we’re moving toward authenticity, that it’s all about the music now— but behind the scenes, there’s still this unspoken rule: you have to look the part. Especially as a woman, the pressure to maintain a certain image is relentless. It’s not just about sounding good, or writing well— it’s about being marketable, clickable, “on brand.”
I’ve seen incredibly gifted artists get overlooked because they didn’t fit the mold. And I’ve felt that pressure myself— to curate not just my sound, but my face, my body, my vibe. It’s exhausting. We talk about breaking barriers, but the gatekeeping is still very real. The industry wants rawness, but only if it’s polished. Wants uniqueness, but only if it’s packaged.
I believe we’re slowly shifting, and I hold onto that hope. But until we stop pretending that image doesn’t matter, we’re lying to ourselves— and we’re losing out on voices that could change everything.
Okay, we’ve made it essentially to the end. One last question before you go. If you laid down your name, role, and possessions—what would remain?
What would remain is the spirit of the people who shaped me. Even without my name, I’d still carry the legacy of my Grammy and Papa— their strength, their grace, their quiet resilience. I am changing my legal name to honor them, to breathe life back into something that was nearly lost after so much grief in our family. So even if I laid it down, it would still live in me.
Without my role or possessions, I’d still have my voice. Not just the one I sing with, but the one I’ve fought for. The one that speaks truth, that remembers. I’d still have the values passed down— kindness, grit, hope, and the belief that love is louder than any pain.
I want a family of my own one day. Not just to build a home, but to pass on the kind of love I was given— the kind that holds you through every storm and teaches you to dance in the living room. That’s the legacy I carry. And even stripped bare, I’d still be a vessel for theirs.
Contact Info:
- Instagram: @haven_adara_music
- Facebook: Haven Adara Music
- Youtube: Haven Adara
Image Credits
Riversong Design Collective
