The night I made grown men cry

And why it changed the way I teach, perform, and talk about mental health.

Author

Brian Zhang
June 24, 2025

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What I’m about to say is going to sound either horribly insensitive… or it’s going to make you laugh — if you’ve got a dark sense of humour.

I’ve made a lot of people cry in my time as a musician.

Young students.
People at my shows.
Even the odd parent.
Oh — and of course, myself.

Crying felt like a taboo when I was growing up. The 2010s were a strange time: society was slowly warming to the idea of men crying, but there were still boomers who’d dry your tears with sandpaper.

(Like that one parent I made cry after she tried to dispute a payment. Her son had done half his lessons, but she wanted a full refund. She almost went full Patrick Bateman on me.)

I actually like Hip to Be Square

But that’s not the point of this story.

Let me take you back to 2017 — I was performing in Toronto at the Guitar Workplus Summit. It was the last stop on my first solo trip around the world.

Amsterdam.
Bristol.
Los Angeles.
Vancouver.
Portland.
Toronto.

I had just finished high school 18 months earlier. Two days before I left for my trip, my grandma passed away. I missed her funeral.

I try not to live with regrets — but this is one thing in my life I regret.

The trip was meant to be this grand coming-of-age experience. Meet my guitar heroes. Jam with players from all over the world. Come home inspired, motivated, ready to take on a professional music career.

But it was anything but that.

Sure, I made friends. I learnt a lot. I even learnt how to survive a shitstorm (like dragging a broken suitcase from Schiphol airport, or sleeping in Philadelphia airport for 30 hours because I missed a flight and couldn’t afford a hotel).

But under it all, I was barely hanging on.

I’d been diagnosed with major depression and anxiety 18 months earlier. And like any good 19-year-old, I did what seemed logical: I took off.

You know the trope — “go find yourself” on a trip, come back transformed. But instead of transformation, I spent half my time hiding in Airbnb rooms or sitting alone in food courts wondering if I should just go home and face it all.

I needed to face what was really going on and realise that I wasn’t okay.

The turning point came at the end of the trip. My roommate at the guitar workshop was a 35-year-old man who had just been laid off. He was there to reconnect with his Indigenous roots. Every night after dinner, we’d stay up until 1am, sharing our stories.

For the first time, I was honest. I told him how scared I was that my depression would ruin my future. How I’d watched my mum — chronically ill all my life — become a shadow of herself. I didn’t want to end up there. But I was terrified I already was.

He didn’t try to fix me.
He just listened.
Then shared his story.

He wasn’t trying to become a rockstar. He just wanted to accept his demons, and let music back into his life. Not to win. Just to be whole.

The next day, we had our final performance. I played One Day by Martin Taylor.

(Here’s a link to a version I recorded before the trip - my God the baby face…)

I softened up the crowd first and said:
“I’m just a lost Aussie kid who realised Canada’s pretty cool because we’re in the Commonwealth.”

People laughed. They thought I’d give a fun performance.

But I said:
“I hope one day you all find your way — because I’m still finding mine.”

I struggled to hold it together.
Then I when I came to the bridge of the song, I let myself go.

I started crying, right there on the guitar. I couldn’t stop.

After the show, I wanted to disappear into my dorm. But something incredible happened.

Men — grown men, in their 50s and 60s — came up to me and said they cried too.

It was the first time I saw men that age openly admit it.

We all went to the bar across the street. Stayed up till 3am.
We laughed.
We hugged.
We cried.
It was beautiful.

Just two boys getting in touch with our emotions.

I’d love to say that after that trip I came home ready to embrace being vulnerable.

But if you’ve been a long time subscriber of this newsletter, you’ll know it took me a lot longer than that.

I’m in this weird phase in my life now where I look back and cry at moments where I though I should’ve cried when it happened.

My girlfriend sometimes wonder why I just randomly get emotional.

I never thought the experiences in music would be like this.

Before 2022, I never let any of my students cry in my lessons. It was annoying, and I would roll my eyes at having to deal with a sobbing child.

But whenever I have a student cry, I think about my experience at the guitar workshop. I think about the stories I shared with middle aged men when they’d get emotional.

And when I share these stories to parents, they cry as well.

Dare I say it, it all happens whiles my guitar gently weeps.

So the point of this story isn’t necessarily a mental health lesson or even a story about depression.

The obvious lessons would be “it’s okay to cry.”

But maybe it isn’t just that.

Maybe it’s just a story.

Maybe it’s about crying.
Or grief.
Or connection.
Or being 19 and lost and trying to find your way.

I’ll let you decide.

And if it made you cry?

Then maybe my job is done.

Because after all…

I make people cry.

Thank you so much for reading today’s newsletter.

I hope it didn’t make you cry too much!

P.S. If you want extra support here’s how you can reach me:

📱 Follow me:

Youtube → https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLdl5NJBr_qWSgD42KT9L99kQ6cntTJR6n (playlist of mental health content)

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