Sometimes You Have to Stop the Music to Take Care of Your Health

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Do you remember the iconic line from Sam Raimi's Spiderman 2? Not the famous "with great power, comes great responsibility" quote. But the moment Aunt May tells Peter Parker:

"Sometimes you have to be steady, and give up the thing you love the most. Even your dreams."

I recently re-watched Sam Raimi's Spiderman 2.

When I first watched it back in 2004 at aged 7, I just wanted to skip to the next fight scene.

Aunt May's words landed differently this time.

After a decade of running my music school, pouring everything I had into each lesson, each student, I was finally admitting something had to change.

Frankly, this was 3 years in the making. I just couldn't find the guts to go through with it.

I held on and on, convincing myself that this was my dream.

I needed to keep the school going for my students.

This was an important thing I was doing.

I told myself this was what I was 'meant to do'.

All while my mental health was deteriorating faster than a rusty old guitar string.

The more I held on, the looser my grip became.

When I started teaching back in 2014, everything was different.

I was 16 years old, teaching 6-year-olds how to play a D major chord, playing "Here Comes the Sun" together. For 30-45 minutes, we'd smile. They'd tell me about "cookies" they made in sandpits (which made me wonder how much sand they'd actually consumed).

When their parents picked them up, they'd rave about how fun the lesson was.

For the next 5 years, that was the core of my lessons. Sure, there was a focus on technique and preparing for exams, but everything was rooted in having fun and playing songs they loved.

By the time I hit 40 students, I had enough income to move out, travel, buy decent gifts, and take my girlfriend out to dinner. Most days, when I'd fall into my dark place, I'd remind myself: "life ain't so bad".

But something shifted in December 2019

After saving my first $100k, I faced a choice:

1. Buy a house?

2. Travel the world?

3. Build a music school?

Have a guess which one I truly wanted.

I'll give you a moment. Drop your answer in the comments before moving on.

If you said either buying a house or traveling, you'd be correct. But I chose the music school. Not because I wanted to, but because I thought it would validate me – in the eyes of fellow musicians, my family, my former teachers.

Over the last four years, I forced myself to believe this was my dream. Running a music school became less about music and more about business.

Admin. Email reminders. Marketing strategies. Budgeting. Handling criticism.

When it was just me and my guitar, I could be 99% honest with parents who'd welcome me into their homes. When the school grew, that honesty became a liability. Show emotion? Unprofessional. Express frustration? Incompetent. Take a day off? Weak.

And when I thought I could go home and just play, my fingers would fail me. I couldn't play a song without thinking about the next day's admin or preparing for potential arguments.

I knew the dream was over. I just didn't want to believe it.

If there's one thing I want you to take away from my story, it's this that your mental health matters more than any dream. Period.

Your dreams are meant to lift you up, not tear you down. When they start destroying your health, it's not just okay to leave – it's necessary.

At 19, my dream was externally validated success. A music school that would impress my teachers, silence my family's concerns about stability, and prove something to my fellow musicians. I spent seven years chasing a dream that was never truly mine—a narrative constructed by others' expectations.

My dream now? It's radically different. To give myself the best chance at health. To be fully present for my girlfriend, friends, and future family. To support artists by breaking the mental health stigma, sharing my story not as a performance, but as a genuine connection.

This dream isn't about proving anything to anyone. It's about healing—for myself and for other artists who've been told to sacrifice their well-being for their art. Where my 19-year-old self saw success through external achievements, I now see it through internal peace, authentic relationships, and the courage to redefine my path.

My life is different now, and I'm okay with that.

I'm also okay with the fact that my dreams may change in another 7 years. I'm okay with that as well.

For now, I'll just focus on my current dream.

I have Aunt May to thank for that.

Thank you so much for reading today's newsletter!

This was a tough one for me to write, given I had to admit that my dream is over. But I'm glad I got the chance to share this with you, and I hope it helps you come to terms with changes that may come your way, and being okay with moving forward.

And if you know a musician or friend who’s struggling, please share this newsletter with them.

They might need to hear it more than you realise.

(P.S. If this newsletter resonated with you, I’d love for you to rate it—five stars, of course!)

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