I wrote Gold at the moment I stopped negotiating with myself.
It came from recognising that something had lost its shine — not slowly, but almost overnight. That strange flip where warmth turns sharp, laughter dries up, and what once felt effortless starts to feel forced. I wasn’t interested in dissecting why it happened. I was interested in the clarity that followed.
The song is built around a simple refusal.
If it doesn’t feel like gold, I don’t want to know.
Not as bravado — as a boundary. A decision to trust my own sense of worth, even when it meant walking away from something that once felt intoxicating. There’s attitude in the song, yes, but underneath it is relief. The relief of choosing yourself without apology.
Sonically, Gold leans into contrast. Darker tones at the edges, heat and energy at the centre. The verses hold tension — restrained, slightly dangerous — before the chorus breaks open into something brighter and more euphoric. I wanted it to feel like reclaiming the dancefloor after a long internal argument.
Lyrically, everything circles that one line. Not because it’s catchy, but because it’s true. When something no longer feels unreal in the right way — no longer lifts, no longer glows — pretending otherwise only dulls you.
Gold is a song about recognising when the gloss has worn thin, and having the confidence to notice it. About choosing what feels expansive over what simply looks good on the surface.
It’s not about bitterness.
It’s about standards.