ANA KAHAN: FINDING HER VOICE AGAIN

Ana Kahan’s story is one of resilience, reinvention, and raw truth. A Los Angeles-born singer-songwriter and Frost School of Music alum, Ana’s path was forever altered by cancer and vocal cord paralysis. But from those moments of silence, she found something deeper: a voice rooted not just in sound, but in strength, healing, and authenticity. In her newest work, especially her haunting single Hotel, Ana captures the fragility and force of human emotion with lyrical precision and emotional clarity. We sat down with Ana to explore the experiences that shaped her music, her perspective on love and vulnerability, and how reclaiming her voice became a profound act of self-discovery.

Your recovery and return to music after vocal paralysis are remarkable. How did losing and then reclaiming your voice shape not just your sound, but your identity as an artist and person?

I think going through anything difficult, you go through some sort of self love journey. Seeing my body heal and recover, I spent so much down time and had no choice but to really turn inward and appreciate all that my body was doing for me. In the music industry it can be difficult to be your own person and not try to mold yourself to what everyone wants. Going through such a life altering experience gave me a very clear idea of who I am as a person and what I stand for both artistically and personally. Although I wouldn’t wish it upon anyone, I try to view those tough times as a gift because they led me to where I am today.

In Hotel, you write about a “delicate line” between love and something more painful. Looking back, do you think you were in love, or were you searching for something else entirely?

Looking back, it wasn’t love—it was lust dressed up in all the right clothes. I mistook intensity for intimacy, and I fell hard for the shiny things: the charm, the mystery, the way it all felt just out of reach. I tricked myself into thinking it meant more because I wanted it to. But really, I was chasing a feeling, not a person. I see that now.

The imagery of taking an “hour drive to the penthouse” suggests both escape and inevitability. How do physical spaces—like that hotel—mirror emotional states in your songwriting?

That’s such a powerful theme to explore. Physical spaces, like that hotel, often serve as metaphors for the emotional landscapes we’re navigating. In songwriting, a place like a hotel can reflect transience, impermanence, or even the illusion of comfort. It’s a space that’s meant to feel luxurious or welcoming, but deep down, it’s not yours. That disconnect can parallel a relationship where everything looks perfect on the surface—gifts, attention, luxury—but emotionally, it’s hollow.

The line “I don’t recognize myself” feels like a turning point. After everything you’ve been through, do you feel like you’ve found your true self, or is self-discovery still an evolving process?

As difficult as it was to navigate, this experience became a turning point for me. I was anxious, unhappy, and far from the best version of myself. After working so hard to prioritize my well-being, I suddenly found myself at the mercy of someone I barely knew. It was disorienting. But through it all, I kept doing the work. There’s always more to learn, always more to heal—but today, I feel at peace. I’ve spent the past few years choosing healing, and it’s left me feeling grounded and genuinely proud of the person I’ve become.

You’ve faced life-altering challenges, but your music doesn’t just tell a survival story—it feels raw and unfiltered. How do you balance controlling your narrative with letting your emotions lead the way?

A big part of music, for me, is about laying it all out there. It can feel deeply vulnerable to share personal experiences so openly, but I often remind myself how impactful it’s been to hear other artists tell their stories. When I connect with someone’s narrative, it has this incredible way of making me feel seen—and I think that’s something we all crave.

Everyone is carrying something, whether they talk it or not. I truly believe that when we’re brave enough to open up, that’s where understanding and support begin.

At the same time, not every song is a word-for-word retelling of my life. Sometimes all it takes is one line—one spark—and suddenly I’m building a whole world around it. It might be dramatized, but it always stems from something emotionally real. That mix of truth and storytelling is what makes songwriting such a powerful outlet for connection.

There’s a deep vulnerability in Hotel, especially in the line “at least I had butterflies.” Has embracing vulnerability in your music become a source of strength for you?

The line ‘at least I had butterflies’ comes from the strange sense of relief I felt in simply feeling something again—even if it ended in heartbreak. I had been emotionally numb and closed off for so long, and this experience marked the first time in a while that I felt genuinely excited to open my heart.

To me, vulnerability is what makes music so powerful. It’s not just about melodies or lyrics—it’s about storytelling and creating a space where others can see themselves in your experience. That connection is the whole point of it for me.

Going through cancer and vocal paralysis must have changed how you see the world. Has your approach to songwriting shifted as a result? Do you find yourself writing from a different emotional lens now?

That experience completely shifted my priorities and how I view the world today. As difficult as it was, I truly believe the greatest gift to come from it was perspective. At 20, I was so consumed by things like how I looked, what people thought of me, and fitting into expectations. But going through something as life-altering as cancer forced me to let all of that go. For the first time in a long time, I felt free to just be myself—and to be at peace with that.

The biggest lesson I learned was to look at people with softness. I went through cancer and, on the outside, no one could tell. I didn’t lose my hair, and I looked ‘normal.’ But that taught me how invisible pain can be—and that so many people are carrying heavy things we know nothing about. It changed how I interact with the world.

Now, when I write, I do it from a place of truth. Because I know someone out there might need to hear that they’re not alone.

In Hotel, you sing about believing you had changed someone. Do you think love is about mutual growth, or do people only change when they’re ready?

I think when it comes to love, a lot of us—myself included—fall into the belief that we’ll be the one to change someone. That if we’re just enough, they’ll have no choice but to fall for us. But the truth is, real love doesn’t work that way.

Speaking from experience, I’ve been in a relationship for eight years, and it’s had its fair share of highs and lows, spanning every chapter of my life. What makes it work today is that we both experienced the individual growth we needed in order to come back together even stronger.

I’ve learned that the healthiest relationships are made up of two whole people—people who are already great on their own—not two people constantly bending or breaking to fit together. That kind of love feels more like partnership, not pressure.

The line “you pay for dinner and wine” hints at a transactional element in relationships. How do you view the interplay of love, power, and self-worth in your life and music?

The line ‘you pay for dinner and wine’ hints at how easy it is to confuse material gestures with emotional depth. There’s a transactional quality that can show up in relationships where power dynamics are unbalanced—where attention, affection, or even love feels conditional or earned through what someone can offer rather than who they are.

For a long time, I think I equated being ‘chosen’ with being valued, even if it meant shrinking myself to fit someone else’s world. But over time, I’ve realized that love without mutual respect or equality isn’t love at all—it’s performance.

In both my life and my music, I’ve become really interested in exploring the intersection of love, power, and self-worth—especially the ways we lose or reclaim ourselves in the process. Writing about those dynamics helps me untangle them, and hopefully gives listeners permission to reflect on their own worth, too.

Now that you’ve fought to reclaim your voice, does singing feel like returning to who you were, or is it about embracing the artist you’ve become?

It’s really both. Reclaiming my voice—literally and figuratively—has felt like coming home to a part of myself that I thought I might have lost forever. Singing was always where I felt most me, so being able to do it again feels like reconnecting with that core version of myself.

But at the same time, I’m not the same person I was before. Going through everything I’ve experienced and all the emotional layers that came with it—has shaped me in ways I couldn’t have imagined.

So singing now isn’t just about returning to who I was, it’s about honoring who I’ve become. There’s a depth and intention in my voice now that wasn’t there before, and I carry every part of my journey into every note I sing.

Ana Kahan’s voice carries more than just sound—it carries story, transformation, and truth. Her journey is one of rediscovery, not only of her artistic identity, but of her inner strength. Through poetic vulnerability and emotional honesty, Ana invites us into her world—one where healing and heartache live side by side, and where music becomes both mirror and medicine. As she continues to evolve, one thing remains clear: her voice, once nearly lost, now rings out with more power than ever.