Lira Bekbolatova on Grief as a Form of Becoming

Lira Bekbolatova’s latest releases unfold like a quiet interior dialogue, shaped by memory, grief, and the search for an inner sense of home. Moving away from external narratives and toward a deeply introspective language, her recent work treats music as a form of creative meditation, a space where questions are held rather than answered. Drawing from personal loss, migration, and the fragility of safety, Bekbolatova explores concepts such as Heimat, transformation, and trust with disarming honesty.

In this interview, she reflects on how turning inward has become both a personal necessity and a shared response to the noise of contemporary life, inviting listeners to meet her music not as sound alone, but as an emotional state of awareness.

Your latest singles, released in December 2025, mark a noticeable shift toward introspection. What motivated this focus at this moment in your work?

I think that today’s information is more accessible than ever. It constantly crosses our boundaries, and we end up absorbing what we don’t need. Turning inward has become a collective response to this information overload. Mindfulness, self-awareness, and meditation have become increasingly common as ways to cope with the pace and pressures of modern life. My recent music reflects my attempt to make sense of the noise around me and to find peace within my own mind.

You often describe your music as a form of creative meditation. How does this concept take shape in your latest works, both in the way you compose and in how you imagine the listener engaging with the music?

I usually begin with a question: “What would grief sound like in music?” or “What does safety mean to me?” Composing becomes a way of sitting with these questions rather than trying to resolve them. I imagine the listener entering the same meditative space, holding the same questions, and allowing their own meanings to emerge.

Creative meditation suggests presence, but presence can be uncomfortable. What emotions were hardest to stay with while working on these pieces?

The hardest emotions were the ones we usually try to escape. As my therapist often says, try to sit with the uncomfortable feeling, let it overwhelm you, observe it, and do nothing with it. That’s essentially what I’ve been doing through music as well. I’ve been allowing these emotions to exist, giving them space, and letting them shape the music rather than trying to control them.

‘Heimat’ reflects on home as an internal state rather than a physical place. How did personal experience shape this perspective during the composition process?

Heimat is a deeply fascinating concept. I was first introduced to it through Ludovico Einaudi. In his recent album “Summer Portraits”, he uses childhood memories as a reference point that shapes all future experiences. He describes it as “a home within your soul.”

As an immigrant, however, Heimat carries a very different meaning for me. I constantly reflect on what “home” truly is. Is it a physical place? A goal? A dream? Is it a person, or perhaps the rituals and traditions we repeat to calm ourselves? Does it depend on money, success, or moving to a new city? For me, home has always been connected to a feeling of safety.

On Thanksgiving morning, I received a message that a close friend of mine had ended his life. He had what many would call a “dream life,” success, opportunities, stability, but what he lacked was peace within his own body. He didn’t have that internal Heimat to return to. That loss shattered many of the beliefs I had held for a long time.

It led me to the realization that no external circumstance, no partner, family, acceptance, success, realized potential, or passport, can guarantee inner peace. That safety has to be built within yourself, just like the home you may have always longed for. While reflecting on what Heimat means to me, I found myself wandering through the corners of my memory.

I remembered my mother’s lullaby and the feeling of being rocked on her lap. That memory brought back a sense of safety, a moment when I knew I was loved, protected, and enough.

Einaudi is right: our childhood memories are our core. The tragedy is that we often forget this feeling of safety within our own bodies, the Heimat we are desperately searching for externally.

In ‘Le Onde’, grief is treated as a process rather than an endpoint. What did working on this piece teach you about transformation and trust?

Grief isn’t only about death or separation. It’s also about the losses we choose: friendships that no longer serve us, lovers who cannot love us in the way we need, or family dynamics that are unhealthy. It’s also about losing versions of ourselves.

I recently read “Invisible Loss” by Christina Rasmussen, in which she explains that we don’t just grieve people; we grieve the invisible versions of ourselves that we let go of along the way. She describes how many of us remain stuck in a “waiting room” of life, suspended between who we were and who we are meant to become.

For me, ‘Le Onde’ represents learning how to swim. At first, there is a paralyzing fear of being drowned by the waves, a fear that kept me stuck and resistant to change. But once I closed my eyes and allowed myself to embrace the movement, to find my own rhythm, everything changed. I began to trust myself within the flow.

The waves aren’t there to harm you, they’re there to carry you. Learning to trust that, even when it feels frightening, is one of the hardest lessons. And it is ok to grieve the person you used to be and all the people, memories, places, and expectations that were tied to that version of you. It is the only way to meet the person you’ve always wanted to become. Grief, as I later realized, is a sign of growth. And there is no growth without grief. As simple as that.

How much of your recent work is shaped by memory, and how much by who you are becoming rather than who you were?

Memory is always the starting point; it’s my primary source of inspiration. But the way each piece ultimately takes shape comes from the meditative space I enter while reflecting on a particular question. It’s a dialogue between who I was and who I am becoming.

When someone listens to your latest releases, what kind of attention do they require? Focused listening, background presence, repetition, or surrender?

Awareness. Like entering meditation, you dive into your subconscious, not in search of answers, but clarity. Emotional clarity.

When you look at your recent output, what questions are you currently more interested in asking than answering?

The concept of Heimat remains an open question for me. I’m also increasingly drawn to exploring the relationship between freedom and safety, where one begins, where the other ends, and whether they can truly coexist.

You work across multiple disciplines, yet your music remains central. What does music offer you that other forms of expression do not?

I think I simply speak music better than any other language. It’s my most honest instrument of communication. Music allows me to be emotional and vulnerable in ways words often cannot, and it can move the listener beyond language altogether.

Looking ahead, do you feel this meditative direction will continue to shape your future work, or is it specific to this period?

I feel that it will continue. I didn’t consciously plan to move in this direction, but I’m deeply enjoying it and excited to explore it further.