I need to confess something. I haven’t been completely honest in recent times – with myself and with you.

Even though I’ve shared my struggles online—through my newsletter, YouTube channel, and now this podcast—I still hesitate to be completely honest with people.

There’s always that small pause before you say something real.
Like something in you is checking if it’s safe to cross the road.

I guess that seed of doubt never fully leaves.

But from today, I want to permanently change that.

Because part of the reason why I started sharing and talking about my mental health struggles online is to change the mindsets, attitudes and stigma that is engraved in the music industry, and has been passed down to generations, including the current generation of young artists.

The tortured artist. The quiet acceptance of burnout.

The rising rates of depression and anxiety amongst musicians.

The suicide crisis—not just in music, but everywhere.

To make it normal to talk about these things.

To make it okay to not be okay.

To make sure that behind the music, when the jam sessions are finished, when the lights turn off, every musician feels like they can talk about what’s actually going on in their lives, whether it’s in music, away from music… or sometimes because of music.

And selfishly, sharing my journey has helped me too.

It’s helped me build the strength to open up.
To be vulnerable.
To talk about the pain of living with depression—and the darkness that can come with suicidal thoughts.

I want to start at the moment my depression began to take a stranglehold on my life.

From struggling to keep up with uni whilst starting my own music school, to my health falling apart, and eventually shutting the school down.

This may not be your typical musician’s story, but then again… my life has never really been typical.

Whose life is, anyway?

When we look back at the period between 2020 and 2022, I think a lot of people will say, “that was a weird time.”

But for me, it wasn’t just because of COVID. I felt there were several sliding doors moments where every decision I made could have major consequences. There were moments when I felt I did not know what to do to move forward.

Coming into 2022, I had completed one year of a jazz performance degree, with half of it being online. Aside from the fact that trying to do a performance degree online sounds illogical, I was also living on my own for the first time.

Nearly four months of 2021 were spent in lockdown.

Each day merged into the next, and I couldn’t tell the difference between Monday and the weekend.

On the outside, I looked fine.

I showed up to classes.
Completed projects.
Practised as much as I could—even if it disturbed my neighbours through the walls.

I turned up to every lesson for my students and tried to have fun with them… even if I didn’t feel it myself.

When I was allowed to go out, I’d spend time with my girlfriend and her family.

I’d smile, laugh and try to make the most of whatever time we had when we were outside.

I cancelled most of my therapy sessions.

I didn’t want to believe that I was breaking down. I wasn’t just a musician who believed music was my healer. I was also a man who would never show any pain, or vulnerability.

And once the new year rolled in, everything I’d been holding together so tightly started to crack.

Living alone. Trying to save money.

Cooking. Paying bills.

Teaching 35 students. Studying full-time.

All while something in the background was getting louder.

Every minute of my day was filled with something.

Anything to avoid sitting still. Anything to avoid the silence.

Because the moment things went quiet… the noise in my head got louder.
All the stuff I’d been trying not to think about.

(In the video below, I go into more detail as to why I hid my depression)

Every day, my sleep got worse.

Nights stretched out longer and longer.
Mornings came too quickly before I even had a chance to fall asleep.

I went from three meals a day… to sometimes half a meal.
Sometimes nothing I made felt worth eating.

Looking back, this is where I should have stepped away and asked for help.

But I was never taught how to do that.

Musicians aren’t taught how to deal with mental health.

We’re taught how to transcribe solos. To master our instruments.

But not how to be honest with ourselves when things start to fall apart.

And when I did try to reach out—to lecturers or professors—I was told things like:

“You just have to find a way”

“I’m not the right person to talk to about this.”

Even my peers struggled to open up.

I had one friend I video called every day during lockdown.
Even after he shared something real, he’d stop himself.

“But I don’t want to talk about it.”

There was always that hint of shame.
Saying it out loud would make it real. We’d have to finally confront it.

When lockdown officially ended at the start of 2022, what should’ve been a moment where our lives resumed…mine felt like it was ending.

I started hating myself.

Whenever something went wrong, music, teaching, even something as small as not cooking a steak the way I wanted, I would walk around my apartment and punish myself.

I started dreading the next day.

I was scared to go to sleep, because I knew the next day would bring more challenges I didn’t feel ready to handle.

So I avoided sleep.

I’d stay up till 4am. 5am. Sometimes I wouldn’t even fall asleep.

I’d turn to my old companion, my guitar.

In the beginning, music still helped.

I could put on my favourite albums… or pick up my guitar… and for 30 minutes, everything would feel okay.

But that didn’t last.

Picking up the guitar started to feel different.

The one thing I loved… started to feel like a reminder…of the exhaustion, of the pressure, of how far I felt from who I thought I was supposed to be.

I thought pulling away from everything else might help me get it back.

So I started pulling away from hobbies I once loved.

I stopped playing cricket.
A sport I’d played since I was 11.
A place where I always felt freer, no matter what was happening in the game.

I stopped seeing friends.

Messages would sit unanswered on my phone.

I postponed catch-ups.

Some days, I’d turn my phone off completely… and lie in bed, staring into my pillow.

Not really thinking about anything. I’d just…be there…

When I stopped being a musician, I didn’t know how to be a person.

And that’s when depression took its chance and latched onto me like a parasite waiting for a host.

So if I can jump forward for a moment…

I won’t say this is the experience everyone will have.

But moments like this make me wonder if I had received the right support, if I had learnt even a few basic skills to manage what I was feeling, I might have come out of it sooner.

Or at least kept moving…despite the pain.

Now in 2026, I still live with depression.

There are still days where I sleep in until 1pm.

There are still days where I stay up until 4am.

There are still days where I wish I didn’t live.

But there are more days now than before… where even if I do sleep in, I try to get up and start my day.

For example, today I woke up at 11am.

But I didn’t get out of bed until 12pm.

I felt exhausted. Hopeless. Worthless.

That old familiar feeling.

My first thought was… “Just stay here. You’re not going to get anything done anyway.”

But I did everything I could to fight that thought.

I said to myself – “Get up. Have your coffee. Just try.”

So I got up.

Brushed my teeth.
Made my coffee.

It took longer than usual. But after that… I felt a little lighter.

A little calmer. Just enough to sit down and write this.

The way I manage things now won’t work for everyone.

That’s the hard part about depression.

It’s like telling someone how they should eat a steak.

You might stand by medium rare.
Someone else prefers medium.

Some people even choose well done.
(And yeah… they’re allowed to be wrong.)

But the one thing I try to do now… that I didn’t do before…is not judge myself.

To not punish myself for mistakes. For having negative thoughts. For feeling pain.

Between 2022 and 2025, I had one thought that showed up everyday:

“You can’t do anything.”

That thought came from a lot of places.

Dropping out of music school.

Never feeling like I could complete a “perfect” day.

Always leaving something unfinished.

When I got tired, I’d push myself harder—going for long runs just to prove I wasn’t weak.

I was also stuck in the past. Constantly dwelling on past mistakes.

Being told I wasn’t good enough and hearing it over and over… until I believed it.

It wasn’t just that I thought I wasn’t a good musician.

I thought I wasn’t a good person.

Now… I try to approach those thoughts differently.

If something comes up, I try to see it for what it is.

A memory. Something that happened but something I can’t change.

And once I do that… I remind myself that a lot has happened since then.

Whether it was 10 years ago… or 10 minutes ago.

Today is still here. There’s still something I can do. Even if it’s small.

If I’m with my girlfriend or a friend, I try to say it out loud as soon as the thought comes in. Most of the time, I tell them they don’t need to fix me.

Just listening helps. Getting the thought out of my head… and into the open.

And once it’s out there, it doesn’t feel as heavy as it once did.

It feels like something I can leave behind.

On days where I feel hopeless… when suicidal thoughts show up…

I don’t try to fight them immediately. I sit with them.

Or I go for a walk. Or I distract myself with something simple.

And I remind myself… this won’t last forever.

And when it passes—even slightly—I try to replace it with something else.

A reason to stay.

Sometimes it’s big like wanting to start a family.

Sometimes it’s small looking forward to a coffee with a friend the next day.

You’ll notice that none of this has anything to do with music. That was deliberate.

When I stepped away from music in 2024, I had to let go of that identity.

For most of my adult life, I only saw myself as a musician.

If music was going well, my life was going well.

If it wasn’t… everything felt worthless.

I had to learn to see myself differently.

As a person first.

Someone who needs to be taken care of.

I still love music. I always will.

But music isn’t responsible for keeping me alive.

As 2025 went on, I slowly began to put my health first.

I let people in and opened up.

There were still panic attacks and setbacks in between.

But over time… I started to believe I could get better.

And the irony i now, when I pick up my guitar I do it because I want to, not because I have to.

Not because I’m chasing something. Just because I enjoy it. Because I love it.

Now I will do my best to talk about my struggles with depression.

About how depression sucks the energy out of my even after a good night’s sleep.

About how anxiety makes me live out all my fears in the space of a millisecond.

About how suicidal thoughts take away my hope for believing I have a life worth living.

I do this all before I talk about music or think about playing a note on my guitar.

Maybe these are the new rules we need in the music community and industry.

The rule is: You matter more than your music.

Take care of yourself first, and your music will take care of itself.

Thank you so much for joining me for today’s newsletter. It was a long one today and if you read all the way to the end it means the world to me that you still find 10 minutes of your day to read.

If you’re a long time reader and my newsletter has helped you in your mental health/music journey, please consider upgrading your subscription which costs less than two coffees a week.

If you decide to upgrade and join the inner circle, you’ll get an exclusive first look at the full drafts where your input, questions and feedback will shape the final outcome of each newsletter. (I’ll try and come up with a better name soon!)

You’ll also get access to audio versions of each newsletter, done by me, not an AI bot, and podcasts where I have conversations with fellow musicians and friends about their mental health challenges as musicians.

You’ll get also get access to audio versions of each newsletter, done by me, not an AI bot, and special video podcasts where I have conversations with fellow musicians and friends about their mental health challenges as musicians.

If you are already a paid subscriber, I will be sending you an exclusive unreleased podcast episode of an interview with a dear friend of mine who gets very candid about her struggle with burnout as she started running her music school, just like myself.

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

In the meantime, take care of yourself!

-Brian.

But no matter what, I’m grateful that you’re part of this journey and I hope that you continue to find hope and support with my newsletter.