Some records don’t arrive to accompany you—they arrive to unsettle you. Lifetime, the new album from Harmony Tividad, does exactly that. It doesn’t resolve. It doesn’t reassure. It moves—restless, searching, unfinished.
Built out of Los Angeles—a place where illusion and introspection blur into one continuous surface—Lifetime feels less like a statement and more like a state of flux. Across twelve tracks, Tividad doesn’t define who she is. She traces the unstable space of becoming. Not identity as something fixed, but as something constantly negotiated, revised, and sometimes abandoned.
There’s a quiet defiance in how she approaches freedom. Here, it’s not romantic. It’s demanding. Freedom asks you to let go without clarity, to choose without certainty, to exist without guarantees. And in that friction, Tividad finds her voice—clear, vulnerable, and unprotected. She doesn’t perform emotion; she lets it sit, unresolved.
The new single, “I’m Still Learning How To Leave You”, produced by Yves Rothman, becomes the emotional axis of the album. Not because it explains everything, but because it refuses to. The song lives in that impossible middle ground: the need to detach from someone you can’t quite stop loving. It’s not about closure. It’s about endurance.
Recorded at Sunset Sound, the production holds a careful balance—anthemic without becoming overwhelming, intimate without collapsing inward. There’s space in these arrangements. Space for contradiction, for hesitation, for breath. Tividad’s voice doesn’t reach for perfection; it reaches for truth before it slips away.
Directed by Hannah De Vries, the accompanying video expands this emotional landscape into something tactile and symbolic. A beached Jesus. Climbing Salvation Mountain. Clouds of colored smoke that feel less like spectacle and more like displacement made visible. The imagery doesn’t explain—it intensifies.
For those who first encountered her through Girlpool, the lyrical sharpness remains, but the frame has shifted. Lifetime is wider, more exposed. There’s less interest in defining a voice and more in allowing it to fracture, expand, contradict itself.
Earlier tracks—Apple Pie, Where Strangers Go, Anything—already hinted at this direction, but here they settle into a larger emotional architecture. Not a narrative arc, but a cycle. A repetition of leaving, returning, undoing, and trying again.
That’s where Lifetime finds its weight. Not in resolution, but in permission. Permission to not be finished. To not have answers. To walk away, even when part of you is still staying behind.
Harmony Tividad doesn’t offer closure. She offers something rarer: the space to remain in motion.
