A Letter to the Burnt-Out Musician

When you became a musician, you did it because the simple act of making a sound on an inanimate object captured your imagination.

The first time you pulled a string on your guitar, almost snapping it, and felt that vibration travel through your fingertips like electricity finding its path home.

The first time you slammed your hand on the piano like you were slapping water, and those ripples of sound washed over you.

The first time you felt a sting from hitting a drum set with your bare hands, the pain a small price for that thunderous voice you summoned from silence.

(My relationship with my guitar…let’s just say we were close)

Then as you grew older, you learned that organizing these sounds together, into patterns and rhythms, created something you just couldn't resist. It made you feel things words couldn't explain—emotions that bloomed in your chest and colors that danced behind your eyelids.

And so you told yourself, "This is what I want to do."

Fast forward 10 years, and you're slowly losing that pattern, like a candle on its last flicker before the flame dies out, smoke rising where passion once burned.

You feel obligated to quickly write random songs with no context, with no sense of purpose, hoping they'll bring a reaction that ensures you can continue this career for a few more months.

Each note feels hollow, each lyric a desperate plea for attention rather than an honest expression.

Seeing others succeed—reeling in thousands, millions, billions of views—makes you think, "I have to work 100 times harder to get there." Their success casts a shadow that seems to follow you everywhere.

You tell yourself "I'm doing this because I love it," despite not remembering the last time you genuinely loved it.

The past few years have been defined by playing lowly gigs in questionable pubs until 2am, getting paid in peanuts (sometimes literally), the smell of stale beer seeping into your clothes and equipment.

You want to keep going, but you aren't getting the rewards you hoped for, unlike your fellow musicians who seem to be killing it, reaping rewards like overflowing popcorn while your cup remains stubbornly empty.

It gets to the point where you wonder if it's worth it.

Music was meant to be your way of being yourself.

The antithesis to your depression, a light cutting through the fog.

The peaceful voice that calmed your anxiety when your thoughts raced like horses without riders.

The quiet breeze that stopped time and helped you live in the moment, when every other moment felt like quicksand.

It was your way of opening up to the world. It was your world.

Until it wasn't.

You question your choice to pursue the musical dream, that fragile, beautiful thing you once held so carefully.

"Is this going somewhere?" you wonder, staring at your instrument that now feels more like a stranger than a friend.

"Should I stop?"

And then you question whether people were right, even those closest to you, their well-meaning concerns now echoing louder than your own convictions.

"Maybe my friends and family were right..."

"Maybe I should just get that 9-to-5."

"This should've been just a hobby."

Well...I may just have the answer you're looking for...

Okay, I only really said that because I hoped you'd scroll down, thinking I do.

I could go on by giving you a sappy motivational speech, telling you it's worth it, to keep going, that the rewards and success will come like spring after a brutal winter.

I'm sure they will.

But that won't really help you right now. It didn't help me when my mentors said the same thing, their encouragement evaporating like morning dew under the harsh sun of reality.

Let me backtrack a little.

So far, as much as this newsletter monologue is me trying to speak to you, it's really just me venting my emotions and sharing what I write in my journal, those late-night confessions to myself by lamplight.

Every day for the last 3 years, I've asked myself, "What the f*** am I doing?" The question follows me like a shadow, never quite disappearing even in the brightest moments.

I've spent $150k of my savings investing in running a music school, studying music, taking lessons from so-called online coaches on marketing, writing, and how to beat the algorithm. Yet I still feel like I'm going in circles. I'm not even dizzy anymore. I'm just spinning with the Earth, one more object caught in a gravitational pull I can't escape.

I still play my guitar every day, but only when teaching students, arranging new pieces for them, or working on client projects. My fingers move, but something essential has gone quiet.

The last time I sat down simply to play my favorite songs, improvise, and lose myself in the music was probably 2021, during a 4-month lockdown in Sydney. Those were the days when time stretched like taffy and music was my anchor in an unmoored world.

I thought boosting my credentials, running a business, and learning from successful online entrepreneurs would help me achieve the musical dream I always wanted. I chased the neon signs pointing to success, not realizing they were leading me away from the music itself.

I mean, it did, sort of.

I had 150 students enrolled in my school between 2021-2024, grew my LinkedIn following to 1,000 from scratch, and started posting more on Instagram, Threads, and TikTok.

The metrics looked good on paper, but paper burns easily.

From a personal standpoint, I'm finally getting my health back on track after a torrid 2024 with seizures, suicidal thoughts, deep depression, and panic attacks becoming regular themes—to the point where I thought I could start my own sitcom called "Panic at Brian's House." (Coming to Netflix or probably Tubi.) Dark humor became my life preserver in a stormy sea.

But it doesn't change the fact that I'm exhausted, bone-deep tired in a way sleep can't touch.

As much as I remind myself that music is my life and the rewards will come, the reality is that having to will myself every day to put 100% effort into creating content, sharing it with the world, and hoping for good results—without knowing whether 20,000 people will see it or just 20—is exhausting.

It's like throwing bottles with messages into the ocean, never knowing if they'll reach shore.

I'm certain you've heard every musical hero say:

"I don't care if one person listens to my music or 100,000, I'm grateful."

The words shine like polished stones, beautiful but sometimes hard to hold.

I don't want to take anything away from them, but it's easy to say that when you're successful, when the world has already cupped its ear to hear you.

When you're early in your career or trying to restart after years of struggling, it's easy to wonder if even one person will come along to witness your offering. The silence can be deafening.

There is one thing that has helped me recently, though.

I had a conversation with a friend about the good old question: "What is the meaning of life?"

I know, original, right? I mean, does a bear shit in the woods?

But we weren't trying to find one singular answer, that elusive skeleton key that unlocks all doors.

My friend is a psychologist, but a huge advocate for the arts.

And the one thing he said that hit home was:

"Art is timeless. It's a way to dance through life without worrying about what's right or wrong. It just is."

His words found a home in me, settling into a space that had been empty for too long.

This isn't something I hadn't heard before.

But he reminded me of something I'd lost for a long time, something that had slipped away so gradually I hadn't noticed its absence.

When I sit down to play my favorite song—whether "Here Comes the Sun" by The Beatles or anything from my hero Tommy Emmanuel—I forget what time it is, what day it is, and any "essential" task I have to do. The world contracts to the space between my hands.

I don't care if the song is from 1969 or 2019.

If I love playing it, I'll play it.

Time becomes irrelevant, a concept belonging to another realm.

Even when I'm exhausted from all the admin, writing, posting, and dealing with difficult clients, I can spend 10 minutes with my guitar and suddenly I'm back in my world where no one judges me for being right or wrong. A sanctuary built of sound.

First, my fingers start dancing, remembering steps they've known for years.

Then my feet begin to follow, tapping rhythms into the floor.

Before long, my head starts bobbing, and my body sways like a tree in gentle wind.

I breathe with the music, and my eyes shut, the external world fading like stars at dawn.

I don't care if I play the right notes because I trust my skills and the practice I put in when I was younger. My muscle memory becomes a kind of faith.

In this world, I can imagine the people I play for are doing the same thing, their bodies and minds moving with mine across time and space.

Doing this doesn't remove my problems.

I'm still tired, carrying fatigue like a second skin.

I still have depression, that faithful shadow.

I still have to fight whether I want to be alive, some days counting reasons like precious coins.

I still have taxes to pay, those relentless reminders of the practical world.

I still need to put food on the table, responsibility a weight I cannot set down.

But for a moment, my reality changes.

The meaning of life becomes all about just being here.

A calmness overwhelms me and gives me the peace I need, telling me I'll find a way through life's challenges. Even if it's temporary, like a shelter in a storm.

This is what music means to me.

It was never meant to help me run away from having a "real job." It was never about proving others wrong. It was never meant to cure my depression.

It was meant to be a companion in my life. To teach me how to be alive. To tell me that I can't change reality. But I can look at it differently, through a lens that transforms ordinary light into spectral colors.

My friend reminded me of that.

I look at life now as a dance.

I can look silly, I can look graceful. I can be exotic. I can be ordinary.

The steps don't matter as much as the moving.

I wish I could tell you that music could solve all your issues and all of life's problems.

But it can't. Life doesn't work that way.

It's not fair, never has been, like a game with rules that shift when you're not looking.

What music can do is help you see life differently.

Instead of running from your problems, it gives you peace and calmness to face them, a moment to gather your strength.

Instead of scoffing at marketing and business, it reminds you those are just tools in your toolbox to help build the beautiful artwork you see in your head, means to an end rather than the end itself.

Maybe you don't have to move forward.

Maybe you don't have to go anywhere.

Because music is timeless, existing outside the current that drags us all downstream.

And if you keep dancing through life, it makes everything just a little bit more fun, adds color to even the grayest days.

So from one exhausted, occasionally suicidal, financially precarious, but still-somehow-dancing musician to another: I hope you stay on the floor a little longer.

I'll be here, moving awkwardly but honestly to whatever rhythm remains.

And that, perhaps, is enough.

Thank you so much for reading today’s newsletter.

I hope this has helped you a little bit, especially if you’re going through a tough time.

Writing this newsletter over the past year has reminded me of why I pursued music in the first place, and why I fell in love with it.

Since starting this newsletter in 2024, I’ve asked you how can I better support you in your musical journey.

Now, I want to build this newsletter into something even more valuable—for you and for the entire music community.

So, tell me: What would make this the best newsletter for you?

Some additions will be free. Others will be paid.

But every response helps me shape this newsletter into a space that truly supports musicians mental health.

Here are some ideas I’m considering:

By filling out this short survey, you’re not just helping me—you’re helping fellow artists who are finding the courage to talk about mental health, career struggles, and the realities of being a musician today.

Thank you so much for your support! I truly appreciate it.

Now I’m off to play my guitar.