It was one of those slow, sunny Saturday mornings where my hangover had attitude, and my coffee wasn’t strong enough to deal with it. I was sprawled out on my couch in a bralette and last night’s eyeliner, doing that half-hearted scroll through my inbox where I pretend to be productive but really just hope to stumble on something that’ll snap me back to life. And there it was—this track called “Jus Wanna Be” by Shira Elias. I clicked, not expecting much, but damn… within the first few seconds, I was up—shoulders swaying, hips following, bare feet sliding across my hardwood floor like it was a Soul Train runway.
“Jus Wanna Be” is the kind of song that hits differently when you’re trying to piece yourself back together after a night—or a year—of forgetting who the hell you are. It’s got this soul-soaked R&B groove that instantly wraps around you like your favorite lover’s oversized hoodie. You know the kind. It smells like them. It feels like safety. And then that beat drops with this bright, infectious pop energy that makes you wanna strut, not stroll, into your next chapter.
Shira sings, “I jus wanna be, I jus should be me, cuz I’m everything,” and it didn’t just land—it stuck. It felt like a love letter to every version of myself I’ve ever had to fight for. The insecure college girl trying to shrink herself into relationships. The boss bitch in heels who still second-guesses herself at 2 am. The woman now—me—learning how to make peace with all of it.
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And when you learn more about her, it clicks. Shira Elias isn’t new to the game. She grew up in performance, cut her teeth in the New York music scene, and toured globally with funk powerhouse Turkuaz. That kind of experience doesn’t just give you stage legs—it gives you stories. She’s played The Fillmore. Red Rocks. Terminal 5. Opened for George Clinton. Worked with literal Talking Heads. So when she says, “Now I get to design the entire puzzle and decide how I want all the pieces to fit together,” you feel that agency radiating through every note of this track.
The lyrics are laced with both vulnerability and fuck-you flair. “I don’t think lightning asks permission to light up the sky / So I don’t need your blessing, just to live my life.” Like—come on. That’s not just a lyric, that’s a mic drop. That’s for every time you’ve waited for approval that never came. For every time you dulled your sparkle so someone else could feel shinier.
When she sings, “Lookin’ in my mirror, who’s that smooth operator? / With the pretty brown eyes, what am I afraid of?”—girl, that’s the scene. The messy bun, the eye contact with yourself, the sudden realization that maybe the love you’ve been craving doesn’t come from a text, a swipe, or a late-night visit. Maybe it’s been staring back at you this whole time.
Shira’s vocals? Like if Aretha and Christina had a baby raised on Mariah runs but fed only soul food. Her tone is honey-drenched but punchy. You hear the gospel in her phrasing and the grit in her delivery, and it all feels earned. She’s not singing this shit for streams—she’s singing it for survival.
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I didn’t know I needed “Jus Wanna Be” until it was pouring through my speakers, reminding me to romanticize the fuck out of my own damn self. It’s not just a song. It’s a vibe. It’s a mantra. It’s a mirror and a dancefloor and a shot of self-worth all wrapped in one.
So if you’re in your feelings, in your power, or somewhere deliciously in between—put this one on. Pour yourself a drink. Light that candle. Touch yourself emotionally or otherwise. And let Shira remind you: You’re everything.
And babe, you always were.
