Valkyrie Beatflow

I didn’t start making music because it was a dream.
I started because I didn’t know what else to do.

I was born in 1991, in the Netherlands.
Now I live alone in Rijswijk, just outside The Hague — where most days are quiet,
and most of what I feel ends up in words on paper.

I was deep in it — the silence, the disconnection, the kind of pain that doesn’t scream but drains you until there’s nothing left.
I didn’t want love anymore. I didn’t want anyone near me.
I wrote poems just to stay sane.

Then one day, I turned a poem into a song.
Not because I thought it would be beautiful,
but because I needed something that didn’t lie to me.

At first, my songs were heavy.
Isolation. Hurt. That cold numbness you can’t really explain.
But slowly, something shifted.
I started listening to affirmations.
I started making music that felt like a hand on the shoulder instead of a punch in the gut.

It wasn’t about pretending everything was okay.
It was about finding moments of calm inside the chaos.

Someone I knew always called me Valkyrie.
I never asked why.
Maybe it was a compliment, maybe just a word that stuck.
But it fit — somehow.
Sensitive, but not fragile. Quiet, but not weak.
And I held onto it.

So now I create under that name — Valkyrie Beatflow 

Because I’m still that mix of tenderness and fight.
Because I still make everything myself — the words, the beats, the artwork, the mess.
Because I still don’t have a label. And I still don’t want one.

I make music for people who feel too much,
who overthink, who want to disappear but don’t,
who sit in silence and hope that someone, somewhere, understands.

A lot of what I write is shaped by my love for philosophy and Buddhism.
That quiet search for meaning is always there — in the background of every song.

If that’s you 
you’ve found the right place.

With love,
Valerie
(Valkyrie Beatflow)