We were lucky to catch up with Parhām Haghighi recently and have shared our conversation below.

Parhām, thanks for taking the time to share your stories with us today Do you feel you or your work has ever been misunderstood or mischaracterized? If so, tell us the story and how/why it happened and if there are any interesting learnings or insights you took from the experience?

This is a question I’ve revisited many times since I decided to pursue music professionally at age 25—about 15 years ago. Because I made this choice intentionally and wholeheartedly, I didn’t struggle much with doubt early on. I was aware of the risks and uncertainties, but every time the question of “What if I had a more regular job?” came up, I’d find ten good reasons to stay on this path. The most important reason being: this life makes me happy in a way that no other path could.

That decision came from a deeper shift in how I saw life. I chose love, joy, and authenticity over predictability, social norms, and routine. I wanted to honor what I loved as a child and quickly discovered I was good at—music. But more than anything, I was drawn to people who lived with passion—people who had something they truly cared about, something to fight for.

Over time, I realized it wasn’t just about music or art—it was about that fire to create, to live fully in the moment, and to build something meaningful. I wanted to be around people who carried that same energy, and I realized I had been seeking that out all along. Once I made that connection, there was no going back and it only made sense to align my career with that same value system. If I’m going to spend half my life working, why not do it doing something I love, with people I love spending time with?

Of course, that doesn’t mean I’ve never had doubts. I come from a culture where everyone is expected to be doctor and engineer. But I’ve come to see doubt as a kind of fuel, and have managed to muffle the noise. Every time I’ve questioned my path, I’ve come out more grounded and recharged. Each moment of doubt forces me to get honest, dig deeper, and reaffirm why I chose this life in the first place.

That said, as I’ve grown older—especially after losing a best friend and approaching 40—I’ve become more open and flexible about what my future might look like. I still hold onto my values, but I’ve learned not to cling too tightly to specific outcomes. Maybe one day I’ll do something I can’t even imagine right now. And that’s okay. After all, if you told me 20 years ago that I’d be a singer with a solo career, I probably wouldn’t have believed you either.

As always, we appreciate you sharing your insights and we’ve got a few more questions for you, but before we get to all of that can you take a minute to introduce yourself and give our readers some of your back background and context?

I’m Parham Haghighi, an Iranian-born musician, singer, and educator based in Brooklyn, NY. My music lives at the intersection of Persian language and tradition and a broader, more contemporary sound shaped by everything I’ve picked up along the way.
I grew up in Mashhad, Iran, in a family where music was always around—especially through my dad, who loved to sing and encouraged all of us to do the same. I started playing piano by ear when I was seven, messing around on a small Casio keyboard that was technically my sisters’. Eventually, I got a few years of lessons here and there, but music wasn’t something I thought I could really pursue until much later. I was good at school, ended up studying computer engineering, and tried to follow the path that made sense on paper—until I couldn’t anymore.
By my mid-20s, I realized music wasn’t just something I loved—it was something I needed to do. That led me to Berklee College of Music, where I studied Contemporary Writing and Production. I started as a pianist but ended up switching to voice after a year, thanks to a few professors and friends who encouraged me to explore singing more seriously. That shift ended up changing everything—it helped me see myself differently and gave me the push I needed to start performing as a solo artist.
These days, my work moves between a few spaces. I write and perform original/cover music (mostly in Persian), often inspired by poetry, political freedom, and the everyday emotional chaos of being alive. I released my debut single, Ey Del, in December 2024—it was a big step for me as a solo artist. I also collaborate with other musicians as a pianist or singer—most recently on a U.S. tour with Siriya Ensemble, a group from southern Iran.
I teach, too—mostly working with kids of Iranian descent and helping them stay connected to the language and culture through music. I also do the occasional voice-over project in English or Persian here and there.
What matters most to me is staying connected to what feels real—whether that’s through a song, a student, or a conversation. I’ve always been drawn to people who live with some kind of fire—artists, teachers, anyone who creates or expresses with love and curiosity. That’s the kind of energy I try to put into my own work, and the kind of people I want to make things with.

How about pivoting – can you share the story of a time you’ve had to pivot?

Looking back, my journey into music was shaped by a few pivotal moments. The first and biggest moment was in my mid-20s. At the time, I was a computer engineering graduate in Iran, and at rock bottom in my life. It was that point when I realized I had to make a change, and I decided to pursue music seriously. Just a couple of years later, I was at the airport in Mashhad, Iran saying goodbye to dozens of my loved ones who came to send me off to Boston to study at Berklee College of Music.
Even after making that major life change, another important pivot surprised me. I had entered Berklee as a piano player—piano had always been my primary instrument, my identity, the way people around me knew me musically. Yet during my first year, I began receiving a lot of encouragement from faculty and students to explore singing. Singing hadn’t been something I was formally trained in; it was something I loved but had never taken seriously—maybe because I grew up in a household where everyone sang all the time, and it just felt like a normal part of life, not a craft to be pursued.
When I finally made the decision to switch my principal instrument from piano to voice, everything changed—again. It wasn’t just an academic or logistical choice—though it did allow me to secure the financial support I needed to continue my education. It also gradually shifted the way I saw myself as an artist and opened up a side of me I didn’t even know was there.
Throughout my career, I’ve learned that even if you’re committed fully to a path you love, you have to stay open to evolving—sometimes what you’re meant to do finds you later than you expect.

Is there something you think non-creatives will struggle to understand about your journey as a creative? Maybe you can provide some insight – you never know who might benefit from the enlightenment.

Stability is often seen as the ultimate goal, but for many creatives, true stability comes from trust in the work, not in the structure around it. From the outside, a creative life might look risky or chaotic—no fixed hours, no guaranteed paycheck. In reality, it’s a different kind of stability: one rooted in purpose, passion, and adaptability.
I’ve found that the unpredictability of this path actually keeps me connected to what matters most. It demands that I keep growing, remain flexible, and continue building my life around meaning instead of routine. When you’re good at what you love and persistent, you can absolutely build a life that’s not only sustainable, but deeply fulfilling—one that’s alive in a way that traditional stability sometimes isn’t.

Contact Info:

• Website: https://linktr.ee/parhamhaghighi
• Instagram: https://instagram.com/parhaammusic
• Linkedin: https://www.linkedin.com/in/parham-haghighi-82631045/
• Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/parhamhaghighi
• Soundcloud: https://soundcloud.com/parham-haghighi
• Other: https://open.spotify.com/artist/6140RllOKfnChhdsrMg0V3?si=UpsAox-tTkOUFeLJ_6RoWg

Image Credits

Liri Agami
Kasia Idzkowska
NimCat Photography
Matthew Muise