#5: The Lie Behind the Spotlight — What Really Happened on X Factor
But you haven’t heard the whole story.
Let’s rewind to 2011.
While most people were still discovering what X Factor even was, I was living it. Not the glamorized version you saw on TV. The real one. The behind-the-scenes chaos, lies, and exploitation nobody wants to talk about. Especially the network.
That year, I was in the middle of a local singing competition called Lucky Break. Two months deep, grinding weekly with live performances. Meanwhile, my mom—always the ride-or-die—secretly submitted a video of me singing to this new thing called X Factor USA. No expectations, just a shot in the dark.
Then came a vague, cryptic email from a production company.
“Call us.”
No details. Just a phone number. So I did.
What they told me?
Simon Cowell was bringing X Factor to America. And if I could get myself to Seattle, I’d skip the lines and go straight to the stage.
No cattle call. No waiting in the rain. Just me, 4,000 people in the audience, and judges Simon Cowell, Paula Abdul, LA Reid, and Nicole Scherzinger.
But here’s where it already starts to fracture.
Same night I won Lucky Break, I had to hit the road to Seattle.
That competition? It gave me $25,000 for winning.
X Factor?
When they flew us overseas for two weeks of nonstop filming and rehearsals in London and France, they gave me $200.
Not per day.
Total.
To feed myself for two weeks. In Europe. With no hotel room choice, no schedule, and absolutely no promise of a dime more unless I “made it.”
We had no real support, no safety net, and no voice.
If you didn’t make it to the top five, you got discarded.
Back to wherever they found you. No help. No closure. Just silence.
Let’s rewind further. My stepdad and two friends packed into a car and drove me 26 hours straight from Tucson to Seattle. No rest. No sleep. We arrived at 8 a.m. I was expected at the stadium at 10. Between interviews, paperwork, and a stadium-sized adrenaline spike, I hit that stage at 2:30 p.m. and sang my soul raw. We had 5 songs on a cd and I was scheduled to sing a ballad. As I was being announced on stage, I asked the sound guy if he could play #3 on the cd instead. After feeling the vibe of the audience, I wanted to make them dance; I Want you Back by The Jackson 5.
They loved me.
I got invited to boot camp immediately.
And that’s where things went dark.
Boot camp wasn’t training. It was warfare.
They woke us up at 5 a.m. with phone calls and hotel door banging. “You have five minutes to be in the lobby.”
It wasn’t a test of talent.
It was a test of obedience and stamina.
A psychological pressure cooker.
We were paired with Brian Friedman—yes, that Brian Friedman, the choreographer for Britney Spears, NSYNC, Beyoncé. Cool, right? Until you’re dancing for 9 hours straight without food or water. No, really. Nothing.
We started dancing at 8 a.m.
By early afternoon, a 13-year-old contestant, Astro, puked into a trash can and began passing out from dehydration.
The production staff? Kept filming and in fact I overheard some of them talking about how they thought that kid was a "brat".
I gathered a group of us together, and we demanded water.
We weren’t contestants anymore. We were liabilities with limits.
An hour later, they finally showed up with some sandwiches and water bottles—after Astro collapsed.
We weren’t being trained.
We were being broken. How much would it take for us to break?
From 250 to 32.
That’s how many made it past boot camp.
Then they flew us home to “rest.”
And by “rest,” I mean, go figure out how to afford two more weeks of unpaid performance and travel in Europe.
Then came Judges’ Houses.
I was assigned to Simon. We were each given two songs: Can’t Get No Satisfaction and Hotel California. Two legendary tracks. One day to learn them both.
I nailed it. Every word. Every note.
After I sang Hotel California, I went to the host and said, “I can’t believe I remembered all the lyrics.” I was proud. Exhausted, but proud.
But guess what?
When it aired, they edited that line and made it look like I was talking about Can’t Get No Satisfaction—a much simpler song.
So the public dragged me. Called me dumb. Mocked me for thinking that song was hard.
And I just had to sit there, silenced, while the world judged a moment they were never meant to see that way.
Here’s what you didn’t see:
I was one of the frontrunners. America thought I’d win.
But I was also one of the only contestants who understood the industry and in fact, studied it.
I refused to sign a blank check of my soul.
I spoke up about contracts, about creative control.
I wasn’t malleable enough. Not obedient enough.
So they cut me. Top 32.
Melanie Amaro, who won?
She’s still in debt. $5 million.
They chewed her up and spat her out.
Because once the cameras are off, these shows have no interest in your legacy—just their own.
After that, I signed with an indie label and moved to Miami. I almost made it.
But then they came after the owner. Nearly killed him.
The label shut down. Doors closed. Again.
And still, I kept creating.
Even when they shut down my single True Legacy the day after it blew up.
Even when they tried to erase me. Yes...Some of you know that story, but I'm not ready to reveal all that yet.
So if you’ve ever asked me:
“Why haven’t you made it yet?”
“Why isn’t your music platinum?”
“Where did you go?”
Now you know.
I didn’t disappear.
I was silenced.
But I’m still here.
And I am no longer quiet.
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