A Quiet Street, A Guitar, and Me

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For the last month, I’ve been writing short stories loosely based on my life.

From the mental health struggles, to the moments that made me want to be a professional musician, to the times I questioned whether I was even worth living for—let alone cut out to be a musician.

Since this newsletter has always been about me being honest about my experiences with depression as a musician, I figured this would be a more creative way to tell my story. At least… for now.

I’m about to share my first draft with you. I’m excited, and terrified.

I’ve written fiction before, but I’ve never made myself the main character.

So, you could say this is loosely based on my life as a failed musician with depression.

I’d love to hear your thoughts. But for now, I hope you enjoy it.

(P.S. There will be an audio version of this with my real voice for paid subscribers if you’re interested) 

I was only 19 and already wondering if I’d made the wrong call.
Not in a dramatic, “I’m quitting music forever” way.
Just that quiet, itchy thought that maybe I’d chosen the safe thing too soon.

It was a Friday night, and I was parked on one of those freshly-paved streets on the edge of Western Sydney — the kind lined with apartment blocks so new they still smelled like paint.

Everything looked the same.

Same developer-approved greys and off-whites.

Same square windows, curtainless, like the buildings didn’t care if you stared back.

Same sterile balconies that no one stood on.

And there I was, sitting in my car, waiting for one solitary guitar lesson to start at 6:30pm.

One kid.
Seven years old.
Thirty minutes.

On a night when I could’ve been at a gig, in some sticky-floored pub, playing for free, getting the “exposure” I kept hearing I needed.

My phone buzzed.

The sky was already dark when my phone lit up.

“Hey Brian, you want to catch up for a late-night coffee?”

“Sorry mate, got lessons tonight. Rain check.” - I texted back.

I lied, of course.
I could’ve cancelled.
But I didn’t.

“Well,” I said, glancing at the passenger seat,
“Guess it’s just you and me again.”

“And I’m talking to my guitar yet again…”

The streets were so quiet you could hear the wind scrape over the bonnet of my car.
The sky was clear enough to make the streetlights feel too bright, like they’d been turned up one notch too high.
Everything felt… suspended.

And underneath it all was this nagging question:
Is this what I really want?

It had been two years since my depression diagnosis.
Back in my final year of high school, just as mental health was starting to seep into public conversation — hashtags, posters, campaigns — but never into the everyday.
At school it was barely a whisper.

I wasn’t one of those musicians who felt “saved” by music.
There was no cure.

But playing guitar, teaching a kid their first chord — that made me feel like I mattered.
Recognised.
Seen.

I became “the guitar guy.”

People I’d never spoken to would stop me in the halls to say they’d seen my YouTube videos.

Friends thought I was destined for some kind of musician’s dream.

My Instagram profile, which back when it was just grainy filters and bad hashtags, was full of photos of me smiling, jamming, laughing with other musicians.

But what I really wanted was to show them was a photo of this night.

Me, sitting alone on a Friday night, on a street no one had named yet, parents not knowing where I was, waiting for a single lesson to start.

The suburbs silent, like someone had pressed mute.
The lesson was just an excuse to be alone.

It was the only time I could stop pretending and actually feel what I was feeling.

I kept asking myself:
Where did this come from?

Was it Mum being in and out of hospital the past few years?

Was it Dad asking me to hold the house together, make dinner, keep my younger brother in line, while he worked late and drove to visit Mum every night?

Was it watching my friends go to parties and study groups while I sat there planning my escape from high school life?

Probably.
But I didn’t want to understand it.

I just wanted someone to tell me things would be okay.

So I decided music would be my way out.
Teaching, especially — it felt noble.
A way to matter.

But if I’m honest, it wasn’t just about helping kids.
It was about being validated.
Admired.

Any artist knows that hunger.
Your whole sense of worth depends on whether someone is willing to listen to you.

When I wasn’t teaching, I felt… nothing.
Or worse…fear.

Fear of being alone forever.
Fear of dying with this pain inside me.

And I knew what people would say if I did:
“He was the last person we’d expect.”
“Why didn’t he talk about it?”

All these thoughts, all this heaviness — and my life hadn’t even started yet.

I shook it off.
Time to teach.

I got out of the car and walked to the student’s building.

And then…through one of those giant floor-to-ceiling windows — the ones that feel like they were designed for strangers to look through — I saw him.

The man with the guitar.

Sitting on one of those designer swivel sofas, pen in one hand, leather journal in the other.
His place looked like a furniture showroom.

“Oh… he lives there…” I thought.
Of course he did.
Living the dream.

I pictured his day — rehearsals, recording sessions, a quick coffee at some hidden inner-west cafe, and now here he was, journaling in his perfect apartment with his perfect calm face.

From where I stood, lit by a single streetlight with the moon trying to push its way through the clouds, he looked at peace.

And for a second, I thought:
“This is what I want too…”

Thank you so much for reading, what is essentially my first short story.

I’d love to hear your thoughts on this and if you’d be interested in reading the next chapter of this.

For me, I think writing short stories like this is a good way for me to reflect on moments of my music career so far, which paint an honest picture of what it’s like to have depression whilst trying to pursue a music career.

If this is something you’re going through now, I hope this helps you realise you’re not alone.

Till next time, take care of yourself.

-Brian Zhang aka the Mental Musician.

📹 You can also check out my latest YouTube video where I reveal something that may come as a shock to you…

P.S. If this story resonated, I’d love if you shared it with a friend who might need it too. And if you want to go deeper, you can join the Mental Musician Inner Circle as a paid subscriber.

When you join the inner circle you will receive voice recordings of my newsletters done by me, not AI. You’ll also gain access to subscriber only videos, similar to what I post on Youtube, but deeper!

There’s a 30-day free trial if you’d like to try it. If you’re good with the free version, I’m grateful you’re here. If you ever need to step away, no hard feelings.

No pressure, but if you do, I’ve got plenty more I’d love to share with you.

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