Ken Pomeroy will break your heart. She’ll do it with a single line––sometimes, just one word. The pain begins as an empathetic ache. Then, as Pomeroy sings her stories, you begin to see yourself in her hurt and hope. And you realize: We’re in this together. 

Pomeroy’s outstretched hand to the wounded manifests as startlingly good songs. Her soprano is comforting––almost sweet––but perhaps most powerful delivering a devastating line. A deft guitarist, she opts for beds of rootsy strings that can soothe or haunt. But it’s her writing that really shines and stings. “Writing was and is the only way I can fully express an emotion and feel like I got it out,” she says. “I feel like once I get it out into a song, I don’t have to worry about it anymore. If it’s a traumatic thing that happened, I kind of act as if it’s gone.” 

Pomeroy creates a wild but safe space of her own––a space that, like 22-year-old Pomeroy herself, is brutally honest, proudly Native American, and undeniably brilliant. 

People have noticed. Pomeroy’s “Wall of Death” made its way onto the Twisters soundtrack, while Hulu’s Reservation Dogs featured her soul-mining gem, “Cicadas.” Tour dates with Lukas Nelson, Iron & Wine, American Aquarium, John Moreland, Kaitlin Butts, and more followed. “A lot of really cool things are happening, but it hasn’t set in. I haven’t had time to bask in it,” Pomeroy says. “Even when I started playing music, I never thought, ‘I’m a musician. I chose this life.’ I feel like something way above me pointed at me and said, ‘Okay, here’s your path.’ And I’ve just been following it kind of blindly ever since.” 

Raised in Moore, Oklahoma, Pomeroy is Cherokee. Her mamaw gave her the name ᎤᏍᏗ ᏀᏯ ᏓᎶᏂᎨ ᎤᏍᏗᎦ, which means “Little Wolf with Yellow Hair.” Pomeroy started writing songs at 11 years old. She remembers why––and in signature Pomeroy fashion, it’s somehow disorienting and charming, all at once. “I think I wanted to be a songwriter because of John Denver,” she says. “I heard ‘Jet Plane” when I was like 6, and I became infatuated with it. My stepmom burned a CD of just that song playing 18 times in a row, and I listened to that for years. That type of music was new to me. I didn’t know you could feel a certain way listening to music. And ever since then, I’ve wanted to do that for other people.” 

Pomeroy weaves patterns of self-reflection and self-realization into her writing. “Coyote,” featuring fellow Oklahoma songwriting stalwart John Moreland, is a vulnerable admission that sometimes, she has herself to blame. In Native stories, a coyote can be a troubling omen––and one with which Pomeroy often identifies. The vignettes serve as a moving example of embracing tradition, extending it, and making it personal. “Growing up Native, there are a lot of signs and works that include animals. Most every tale includes an animal somehow,” Pomeroy says. “I think that was just subconsciously ingrained in me.” 

That’s the entire point for Pomeroy––and why she’ll keep writing. She is chasing that sublime satisfaction that only comes with capturing a moment or a feeling that otherwise is gone forever. “I want people to hear my songs and think, ‘Wow, I went through something similar, or this line reminds me of something that happened in my life. Someone else feels it, and I’m not alone.’” Pomeroy sighs. “That’s what I want: People not feeling alone.”