You know, when you were younger, did you ever want to grow up quickly?

No more lectures from your parents.
Freedom to make your own money.
Late nights with friends in a house you could call your own.

I certainly did. By the time I was 14, I couldn’t wait to grow up.

I had this vision that by the time I was 24, I’d have it all:

• The full-fledgedly music career

• The nice house with a beautiful studio

• The freedom to travel wherever I want

I knew I’d have to work hard, but I figured I’d be rewarded handsomely for it.

Well… I’m 27 now.

And I’ve somewhat achieved those things.

But I did not take into consideration the 1000 other caveats that came my way.

I guess that’s the exuberance of youth aye?

It never occured to me that I’d have severe bouts of depression.

That my first business would cost me $150k instead of earning me $150k.

That my body would shut down and I'd have a mental breakdown after years of pushing myself to the ground.

I wasn’t invincible.
I wouldn’t be performing on stage every week.
I wouldn’t become the award-winning music teacher who revolutionised Australian music education.

No.

Since 2023, most of my days have looked more like this:

• Answering emails from parents questioning my right to run a music school

• Managing tutors asking to miss a school concert so they can attend a Pokémon tournament

• Coming home, not even bothering to turn the light on, let alone cook myself a meal

And no matter how hard I tried to avoid it, I’d think to myself:

“This isn’t how it was meant to be.”

But I know I’m not the only musician who feels this way.

I know I’m not the only musician on the planet who feels this way.

There are 379 of you subscribed to this newsletter—and if you’ve stuck around, it means something’s resonating.

Now, I’m not telling you all this because I want sympathy.

I’m telling you because I’ve come to realise something:

What I’m doing now is more meaningful than anything I dreamed of at 17.

It just took me an extra 3 years (and a few thousand breakdowns) to figure that out.

How The Mental Musician Started

This newsletter was born out of frustration.

Frustration at the lack of mental health support for musicians, like you and me.
Not just in the industry—but on social media, too.

Open Instagram, YouTube or TikTok, and what do you see?

Guitarists arguing about whether you djent.
Jazz bros playing Giant Steps for the nine millionth time.
Up-and-coming singers spending 90% of their videos talking about releasing an album... but never actually releasing it.

And I kept asking myself:

“Where are the bloody videos about the mental health crisis in the music industry?”

So I made my own post - https://www.instagram.com/p/CZk_No6hms4/?utm_source=ig_web_button_share_sheet&igsh=ZDNlZDc0MzIxNw%3D%3D

This was the very first post I made about mental health in music on Instagram, in 2022, and the first iteration of The Mental Musician.

I was determined to let my fellow musicians know that they are not alone in their struggles. I wanted to be a voice for them and tell them:

"If you are scared to share your struggles, I’ll go first. I got your back."

But even then—I wasn’t consistent.

The first 10 posts were essentially essays.

They were Informative, but was I truly being vulnerable? Not really.

It took nearly two years before I shared my first real battle with depression.
Even then, it was a Twitter screenshot. Carefully curated.

I was still trying to teach.

I was still holding back.

But those tiny steps started something.

Fellow musicians began messaging me. Sharing their stories. Opening up.
They didn’t need career advice. They needed someone to say:
“What you’re feeling is real. And you’re not alone.”

I realised that post alone, had more impact than any performance I’d ever given.

The Day I Finally Got Honest

So on June 20th 2024, on this newsletter, I found the balls to tell my entire battle with depression, and my first experience with suicidal ideation.

Here it was - https://thementalmusician.beehiiv.com/p/returning-light-depression-stole-love-life 

This was the first time I shared something online, on any platform, where the entire post was focused on detailing my mental health battle. I spared no details, and I spent the week leading up to it going back through my journal to relive the pain, so that what I wrote would be 100% honest.

Did this post change my life? Well, if I wanted to ham up the story, then yes. But it didn't at the time.

But the next 6 months did.

At the time I only had about 30 subscribers.

A week later, that number tripled.

I received long emails from fellow musicians who opened up about:

• About their depression

• Their panic attacks

• The invisible toll of trying to “make it” in this industry

It was an emotional week. For the first time, in a long time, I didn't feel alone.

The Lie I Told Myself

For 10 years, I convinced myself that being the best guitarist, the best teacher, and a walking encyclopaedia of music theory was how I’d make a difference.

But it was a lie.

And when you lie to yourself long enough, you forget who you are.

After that post, this community gave me the courage to stop lying.

It became easier. I was happy to reflect on my struggles, relieve the pain I dig through the darkest parts of my life to help other musicians.

I can't speak on behalf of everyone here, but perhaps because I'm not a big music star with millions of followers, people have been able to connect with me.

It's because I have been struggling for 10 years, and I'm still trying to find the drive to keep going, not for fame, but to help people.

I don't have the money to invest in industry changes, to fund career development programs. I wish I did. Hopefully I can get to that stage.

But what I do have is a way to tell my fellow artists and musicians that I am still trying. I found a way to get through one of the darkest periods of my life.

I have no doubt that I will have more dark times.

My depression hasn't disappeared.

I still have panic attacks over the thought of my career falling apart.

But I get through those thoughts.

I tell myself that I have found a way to get through before. I will do it again.

Only this time, I have a whole community of people to share this journey with.

And this community is only going to grow.

At the time of writing this newsletter, there are 379 artists subscribed.

I hope that we can help 379 million artists out there.

A New Chapter for The Mental Musician

So I’ve launched a Patreon page for The Mental Musician.

But this isn’t about creating content for content’s sake.

It’s a chance to build this community— To create a space where we can support each other, share honestly, and feel less alone in our toughest moments as musicians.

Here’s what I’m building inside:

• A growing library of mental health tools and journaling prompts

• A quiet corner to share what you’re going through

• A behind-the-scenes look at the stories I’m writing—before they go out

• And a safe, supportive chat space to connect with others walking the same road

Because the truth is—no one, let alone musicians, should have to face these struggles alone.

Here it is - patreon.com/thementalmusician (If you’re subscribed to this newsletter and become a patreon, I’ll be sending you an extra gift)

And look, I know you might have some hesitation about this.

I wouldn’t blame you—
There are a lot of creators online asking for support and offering little to nothing in return.

But I’ll say this:

Everyone in this community have kept this newsletter alive since I started it on May 17th 2024.

The only way to keep it going is to continue that community effort.

As they say, we are all in this together.

The only times I’ve felt truly fulfilled as a musician have been when I shared the journey with others.

Not just the wins. The dark parts too.

When I get a message from someone saying one of my newsletters helped them pick up a guitar again, or feel inspired to share their story —that means more to me than any gig.
Even the one with Tommy Emmanuel (yes, really).

The Mental Musician started as a running commentary on the mental health crisis in the music industry.

But now?

It’s a meeting place.
For people like you.
Who know what it feels like to struggle—but keep showing up anyway.

You don’t have to contribute much.
You just have to turn up, be honest, and do your best.

For what it’s worth—I’ll be doing the same. No matter what.

Because you don’t owe me anything.

I owe you everything.