2024 Broke Me. But It Also Gave Me This

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If you squint hard enough, you can almost hear sleigh bells jingling in the distance.
(Or maybe that’s just my sanity unraveling after another chaotic year in music.)

Either way, here we are—December. The month of overeating, under-sleeping, and pretending this will finally be the year we become someone completely different come January 1st.

Last December, I was licking the wounds of a spectacularly messy breakup—not with a person, but with the franchise I’d built my music school under. If Brad and Angelina’s divorce was a controlled bonfire, mine was a flaming clown car tumbling off a cliff.

To escape the wreckage, my girlfriend and I packed our bags for Japan.

While she basked in $1 sushi and high-end designer stores with price tags that could fund a small country’s GDP, I sat down with my journal and wrote my New Year’s resolutions.

Except I didn’t call them resolutions.

I called them “vows.”

I know what you might be thinking: “How pretentious is this guy?”

(Okay, you’re probably not thinking that, but thanks for indulging my inner monologue. Let’s move on.)

These vows were meant to make sure I’d never have to relive the kind of year I had in 2023—a year where:

• My depression hit rock bottom, and I experienced suicidal ideation for the first time.

• I tested the human limits of sleeping just 4 hours a night before completely breaking down.

• My savings dwindled from $150k to barely scraping by with $5,000.

So, my vows were simple:

• Prioritize my health by getting at least 4 hours of sleep a night, three times a week.

• Show gratitude to family and friends with a weekly check-in text.

• Reconnect with why I fell in love with music in the first place.

Well… I broke every single one of them.
And then some.

Let me give you the highlight reel:

• I went from sleeping 4 hours a night to 2 hours a night. My record stretch was eight straight weeks, from July to November, averaging just 2 hours of sleep per night.

• I chased “likes” and virality instead of chasing my love for music.

• On November 7th, I had a full-body seizure—my body’s way of saying, “If you won’t rest, we’ll shut you down ourselves.”

• My relationship was tested to its breaking point, and we came close to splitting up five times. Instead, we fought hard to stick together, and now we’re moving in together

• Anxiety attacks became weekly visitors. Full-on breakdowns with ugly crying happened once a month.

• After reopening my music school as an independent business, I decided to close it again—this time, for good.

• My bank account now sits precariously at $2,000, and oh yeah, I have a mortgage to pay.

Safe to say, I didn’t just break my vows. I obliterated them.

So why am I telling you all this?

Because every self-help book, productivity guru, and polished LinkedIn post will tell you to write down your goals. To design your “ideal day.” To map out your 1-year, 5-year, and 10-year plans.

And while I understand the value of goals—I’m not dismissing them—they rarely account for the messy, unpredictable, and heartbreaking nature of life.

In January 2024, I truly thought I had set myself up for success. I had my goals. My vows. My checklist.

But nowhere on that list did it say:

• “Prepare for a full-body seizure.”

• “Be ready to move in with your partner spontaneously.”

• “Brace yourself for the slow erosion of your mental health despite your best intentions.”

Life doesn’t follow a bullet-pointed plan.

You might wake up one day and decide to start a newsletter because you’re stuck in Sydney traffic, monologuing to yourself like you’re on a podcast. (Yes, that’s exactly how this newsletter began.)I

You might stumble across the perfect apartment with your partner and decide, on a whim, to move in together six months ahead of schedule.

You might find yourself breaking down in your car, questioning whether you have anything left to give.

None of that was on my list.

Why This Newsletter Exists

When I started The Mental Musician, I didn’t want it to be another guide to “5 Steps to Grow Your Spotify Streams” or “How to Book Your First Paid Gig.” There are incredible resources for that—like Jessie Candon’s newsletter, which you can check out here.

But I wanted this space to be something different.

A place where musicians—people who love music but are tired, scared, or just plain lost—could come and know they’re not alone.

Because here’s the truth:

• Most musicians don’t want fame or millions of streams.

• They want 100 loyal fans.

• They want to share their art without sacrificing their sanity.

• They want to make enough to pay their bills and sleep at night without crushing anxiety.

And yet, we’re told:

• “You’re not a real artist if you’re not struggling.”

• “Just play for the love of music, and the rest will follow.”

• “Stop worrying and just create.”

It’s exhausting.

I’ve always been vocal about the need to talk openly about mental health in music.

Not just statistics and systems—but real, raw stories. Stories from someone like me:

A musician who:

• Picked up a guitar at age 4.

• Started teaching at 16.

• Built a music school at 24.

• Did all this while battling severe depression, anxiety, and suicidal ideation.

By industry standards, I’m a “failed musician.”
I don’t have a million Spotify streams.
I don’t have a Grammy.
I don’t have 10 million YouTube subscribers.

But here’s what I do have:

• A love for music that’s still alive, even after everything.

• A deep joy in picking up my guitar and playing “Here Comes the Sun.”

• The pride of watching my students light up when they play their first chord.

This newsletter has always been about sharing that side of the story. Some of the best editions that represent this include:

• The day I walked away from a prestigious spot at the Sydney Conservatorium of Music. Read here.

• The loneliness I felt on this path. Read here.

• The moment I fought back against suicidal thoughts and chose to keep going. Read here.

These aren’t polished life lessons tied up in a neat little bow.

It’s about the 90% of musicians who don’t want fame or fortune.

Who just want 100 loyal fans.
Who want to make music without sacrificing their sanity.
Who want to talk about their struggles openly—without being told to “just play for the art.”

They’re raw, messy, and honest reflections from someone who still isn’t quite sure he’s figured it all out.

But every week, 277 of you show up to read them.

That’s not something I take lightly.

Why I’m (Cautiously) Optimistic for 2025

2025 could be worse than 2023 and 2024 combined.

It might be better.

But honestly, I’ve stopped trying to predict the plot twists.

Instead, I’m focusing on a few simple things:

• Taking care of my health—not to optimize productivity, but to stay alive.

• Showing gratitude to the people I love—not because it’s a checkbox, but because they deserve it.

• Playing music—not for validation, not for likes, but because it’s what makes me feel alive.

I’m not tying these intentions to outcomes.

Because if I’ve learned anything in the last two years, it’s this:

Life doesn’t care about your perfect plan.

But if you can learn to bend with it—just a little—you might find something beautiful on the other side.

Thank You From The Bottom Of My Heart

This newsletter isn’t just my story—it’s ours.

Over the past year, some of my favorite moments came from you: the replies, the shared stories, the vulnerability you trusted me with.

So here’s my question:

👉 What was your biggest lesson from 2024?

Hit reply, share it with me or drop a comment in the comment section.

Your insights might just shape what I write about next year.

Because while I might be the one typing these words every week…

This space? It’s ours.

To every single one of you who has opened these emails, hit reply, or shared your own stories with me this year: thank you.

You’ve made the messiness of 2024 feel a little less lonely.

And if 2025 throws another curveball (or twelve), at least I know I’ve got you.

Here’s to more stories, more honesty, and maybe—just maybe—a little more sleep in 2025.

If not, well… at least we’ll have each other.

— Yours truly, Brian Zhang a.k.a. The Mental Musician

If this story spoke to you, share it with someone who needs to hear it.

We’re building something special here—a space for musicians to feel seen, understood, and less alone.

Every referral helps keep this newsletter alive, and every share brings someone closer to the conversation they might need today.

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