As a musician, what do you feel is scarier?

Climbing the Taipei 101 skyscraper without a harness, rope and life insurance, or performing your first solo concert at Carnegie Hall in front of all your family, friends and music mentors?

I mean Alex Honnold has some serious kahunas and must have a bucket full of hope.

He may not know what it’s like to walk onto a stage with 1,200 people staring into your soul, but these days, I’d still rather channel my inner Spiderman with him.

Lately, I’ve questioned how many times I can realistically bounce back from setbacks.

This year alone has been heavy. My Grandma is in palliative care. On February 18th, I had my third seizure in just over a year, and this time, my license was suspended. I’ve found myself questioning my health in ways I never have before.

After spending all of last year rebuilding my life, getting my mind and body healthy, this feels like the ultimate knockout blow. And even when things are out of your control, it still hurts.

How many times can I reset after a tough day, especially when my frenemy depression decides to sit beside me and refuse to leave?

I’ve also questioned something else.

If I’m struggling to hold onto hope myself, how can I offer any to others?

When I started this newsletter, I never wanted it to be a running commentary on the music industry or an academic breakdown of mental health statistics.

I wanted it to be honest. I wanted to write about the moments where I felt completely hopeless.

The stress of building and maintaining a music career.

The bouts of suicidal ideation I’ve endured.

The silence of the loneliness.

Because the truth is, most musicians struggle far more than they succeed. And I thought that if I could show that a real person — your everyday musician — struggles with depression everyday and still find a way to live, then maybe it would give someone else a small reason to keep going too.

I also wanted this to be a place where you felt supported. Where your experience felt seen and validated.

Being a musician can be one of the greatest gifts someone can receive.

It can also be deeply painful.

I know I spend a lot of time criticising the lack of mental health awareness in the industry, and reflecting on how the pressures of being a musician contributed heavily to my depression.

But for all my struggles, music has also given me moments that helped me fight on. And despite everything that’s been happening so far this year, after digging deep, I found a small dose of hope that I want to share with you today.

I think about the concerts I run for my students. Seeing their families smile with pride. Watching kids overcome stage fright and realise they’re capable of more than they thought.

I think about meeting my guitar heroes and forming friendships that have nothing to do with status or success.

Music has also quietly taught me business skills that have, for the most part, kept my bills paid on time.

And then there are the strange, unexpected moments where a guitar becomes something else entirely.

One of those moments happened in 2017 at Philadelphia airport.

I was 19, travelling alone for the first time, on my way to Los Angeles. I landed in Philadelphia at 3pm, expecting a simple two hour layover before a 5pm flight. Easy. Grab my bags, get a coffee — which, by the way, why is American coffee so bad? I’d rather drink turpentine — and wait at the gate.

Instead, over the next eight hours, there were six separate announcements delaying the flight. It felt like a sick prank. Every announcement gave each of the 150 passengers hope they’ll be on the plane within 20 minutes, only to take it away.

With each passing hour, the feeling in the air turned to frustration and anger, and by 11pm the flight was cancelled altogether

I saw grown men were swarming airline staff who had absolutely no control over the situation. The A350 jet was right there outside the window, no more than 100m away, looking perfectly fine and ready to go. Maybe the plane needed to be repainted.

As people tried to argue their way through getting their flights upgraded for compensation, I decided to pull out my guitar, and asked the few calm people around me what they wanted me to play.

One girl next me said “Maybe just play something, what do we have to lose?”

So I decided, “you know what will always bring people together? A bit of Livin’ on a Prayer.”

It took for me to get to the pre-chorus where the song goes “says we got to hold on, to what we’ve got…” for people to recognise the melody. Slowly but surely, two people started singing along. Then 10 people. Then 20 sat next to me and started clapping, pumping up the rest of the gate.

(You can check out my cover of the song from way back in 2016!)

Half the crowd were off to the check-in desks to plead their case. But the other half stayed for the concert.

For a moment everyone settled down, and they even asked for more.

So I played another classic – Sweet Child o Mine. That one seemed to remove any anger from the night.

Eventually we had to vacate the gate and find somewhere at the airport to camp for the night. There was a small corner near the food court where the airport staff provided stretcher beds and as I walked over, I could hear slight murmurs about people talking about “that Asian guitar player.”

Some way to serenade people to a good night’s sleep.

For about 15 minutes, I was the biggest rock star at Philadelphia airport.

At the time, all I could think about was how fun that was, and how weird the situation was. But it was also one of those instances where, no matter what happens, there is always something that you can do to tell yourself “it’s okay.”

This was back in 2017 when I was 19 years old. It’s probably easier to say “it’s okay” when you’re that young.

A lot has happened since then.

In many ways, I’m in a weird spot in my life.

But this is where music has quietly returned to me — not as pressure, not as career ambition, not as something to prove.

As hope.

I don’t think about turning angry crowds into singalongs anymore. I think about that feeling of being okay. The same feeling I had at Philadelphia airport. The same feeling I’ve had when I’ve been dangerously close to giving up, only to have a friend, my girlfriend, my family, or even one of my students remind me that it’s okay.

For the last four years, I struggled to even look at my guitar. It represented pressure, financial stress, anxiety, and the depression I battled for a decade.

Now, ironically, I pick it up because it makes shut out the noise.

There’s a song I keep returning to: “Questions” by Tommy Emmanuel.

Whenever I have a panic attack or I fall into a dark place, I either play it or listen to it. There is something about the opening chords, the melody, the slow, patient rhythm that tells me things will be alright.

The title feels almost too fitting.

Every day I ask myself questions.

Will I be okay?
What am I doing with my life?
When will this pain end?

Music hasn’t saved my life.

But it has given me something I thought I had lost for a long time – Hope.

It’s reminded me that there’s nothing lost that can’t be found again.

Maybe that’s enough.

And maybe, just maybe, I’ve discovered the true power of music?

What do you think?

Thank you so much for joining me for today’s newsletter. It’s been two years since I started this newsletter, and it means the world to me that you still find 10 minutes of your day to read. In many ways, you’ve given me the hope to not just keep this publication going, but to keep believing in hope.

And if you found today’s newsletter hopeful, I’d love it if you could share it with a friend.

Simply click the button below and refer my newsletter to them. The more you share, the more we can help more and more people who are going through something similar, and help musicians find ways to express their pain without having to hide behind their music.

P.S. 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.

I want to give a quick shoutout to my newest Inner Circle member – David https://www.linkedin.com/in/david-mckiever-b237b260/

We recently connected on Linkedin, and since then, he has become somewhat of a confidant for me, especially during this tough time so thank you David, I appreciate you!

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 have a sneak preview of my next podcast episode as well as an extra download of an old episode that I never released.

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.