The musician's greatest fear: Will people forget me if I take a break?

In partnership with

On December 31st, 2024, I set my sights on running my first half-marathon.

I had 21km left to reach my goal of running 1000km in a year.

But in the five days leading up to that, I had already pushed my body through 150km.

Even though I had been running all my life, I wasn’t an athlete. 150km in five days felt impossible.

But this wasn’t just about fitness.

I needed to prove to myself that I could still do hard things.

Because 2024 was the year that broke me.

My depression had never been worse.

I lost my passion for music.

Every morning, I woke up feeling like I was stepping into a nightmare rather than waking up from one.

The only thing keeping me afloat was knowing that if I put on my shoes and ran for 30 minutes, I could still breathe at the end.

So, finishing that half-marathon—crossing just one finish line after a year of feeling like I had failed at everything—was my way of clawing back a shred of control.

What I didn’t realize, as I stood at that starting line with 21km ahead of me, was that I had already been running on empty for far too long.

And when you ignore your body’s warning signs, it doesn’t ask twice. It takes over.

Let me ask you something:

Have You Ever Felt This Way in Your Music Career?

That if you stop, you’ll fade into obscurity?

That you’ll become just another has-been?

That you’ll have to face your friends and family—the ones who warned you that chasing music was a mistake—and admit they were right?

Yeah, I know how you feel.

And I don’t blame you.

Because for the first eight years of my career, I lived with that same fear every single day.

I took every gig I could. Busking at farmers’ markets, playing weddings and corporate events, even providing background music for meditation yoga classes.

(Just between you and me, that yoga gig was a trip. I’ve never taken psychedelics, but I think that was the closest thing I’ll ever get.)

I took on every student who wanted lessons, no matter where they lived. I offered free gear, discounted lessons, anything to keep them coming back.

In between, I practiced like my life depended on it. Pushing through bruises, cramps, cracked nails—because if I slowed down, I’d fall behind.

But looking back, I have to ask myself:

Who the hell was I trying to keep up with?

I knew my health was deteriorating.

I kept telling myself:

"You need to sleep, Brian… you’ve had 20 hours of sleep in the last two weeks."

"You need to eat. You’ve lost 7kg from stress."

"It’s not worth it. None of this feels good."

And yet, I kept going.

The irony?

For all the gigging, teaching, and practicing, my career didn’t skyrocket.

All I did was push myself to the point of panic attacks, sleep paralysis, suicidal thoughts— And eventually a full-bodied seizure.

In a world where artists are measured by how many seconds they can hold someone’s attention before getting swiped away—

Where the algorithm punishes you for taking even a moment to breathe—

It’s no wonder musicians push themselves to the edge.

You write songs to process your pain.

Your fans call your lyrics deep and relatable.

But they don’t realize your song was a cry for help.

And when they ask for more, you don’t want to let them down.

So you move on to the next song, forcing yourself to release it within five days.

You tell yourself it’s what you want—when really, you’re afraid of being forgotten.

But here’s the truth:

You cannot outrun nature.

I learned that the hard way.

Two weeks before I hit my 1000km milestone, I had a full-body seizure.

I was at my GP’s office for a routine check-up.

One moment, we were talking about how I could get more rest.

The next, I was unconscious.

When I came to, my head was pounding. I had a black eye the size of a golf ball. And there were paramedics lifting me onto a stretcher.

I had been out cold for 45 minutes.

That seizure was my body’s final warning.

After 8 years of ignoring every red flag, my body decided it had enough.

I had no choice but to listen.

As I lay in that hospital bed, I debated whether I should tell anyone what had happened.

"Would they say ‘I told you so’?"

"Would they call me weak?"

"Would they tell me to quit and get a real job?"

In the past, I would have brushed it off. I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.

But this time was different.

I needed to tell someone—not to admit defeat, but to acknowledge that I needed to stop.

So I sent the texts.

And then I braced myself for judgment.

But it never came.

Instead, I received messages from friends and family asking if I was okay.

My parents—who I don’t have a great relationship with—showed up at the hospital to tell me that if I ever needed help, all I had to do was ask.

But what shocked me the most?

Messages from my students’ parents, thanking me for being honest.

Messages from fellow musicians, telling me they were finally ready to talk about their own struggles.

Messages from men in my life, grateful that I was breaking the stigma around male vulnerability.

For the first time in a long time, I felt seen.

Look, I’ll be honest, when I shared my story on Instagram, not every response was kind.

Some people told me to give up and get a real job.

A few long-time followers unsubscribed from my newsletter.

But you know what?

Those people don’t matter.

Because for every anonymous internet critic, there were dozens of people who needed to hear what I had to say.

And if my story gave just one person the courage to take a break before their body forced them to—

Then it was worth it.

So, to answer the question:

"Will people forget me if I take a break?"

No.

They’ll remember you for having the courage to take care of yourself.

They’ll be inspired by you.

Oh and on my 21km run, I managed to cross the 1000km finish line!

But only after I stopped at 16km walked the last 4km.

And I was okay with that 🙂

Thank you for reading today’s newsletter.

I know this fear is real. Every musician faces it, no matter how big their audience.

But remember this: Every time you step away to take care of yourself, the right people will still be there when you return.

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

They might need to hear it more than you realize.

Brian

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

Stay up-to-date with AI

The Rundown is the most trusted AI newsletter in the world, with 1,000,000+ readers and exclusive interviews with AI leaders like Mark Zuckerberg, Demis Hassibis, Mustafa Suleyman, and more.

Their expert research team spends all day learning what’s new in AI and talking with industry experts, then distills the most important developments into one free email every morning.

Plus, complete the quiz after signing up and they’ll recommend the best AI tools, guides, and courses – tailored to your needs.

Sign up to start learning.