What I Learned from Closing My Music School

Ten years ago, I gave my first guitar lesson. It was for my six-year-old neighbor, and I charged a whopping $15 for half an hour of my time.

At just 16, I had never envisioned a future in teaching music. Truthfully, the only reason I started giving lessons was that five retail jobs had turned me down. Guitar was nothing more than a serious hobby; I loved it, sure, but it was on the same level as my passions for tennis, cricket, or even the girl in my grade who made my heart race.

Back in 2014, I had three students. They were all “kids,” and to be honest, I didn’t care much for them. I was a cocky teenager, a self-proclaimed virtuoso who felt embarrassed teaching Jingle Bells to a child who could barely sing the alphabet. My sights were set higher; I was destined to be the next Tommy Emmanuel.

When Passion Becomes Purpose

But as high school wrapped up, everything shifted. My small group of three students grew to eight in 2015, then 26 in 2016. By 2019, I had 40 students and a burgeoning music school. That year, I held my first concert, gathering all my students in one place, each accompanied by their proud parents. One student had three aunts and uncles come to support his three-minute set.

What struck me that day wasn’t just the performances, but the sense of community. Families pitched in, bringing food, helping with venue costs, and even cleaning up afterwards. All of this happened amidst the searing heat of a 35-degree day during the 2019 bushfires in New South Wales. I remember looking at the empty hall afterwards, turning to my girlfriend and saying, “I think I want to do this for the rest of my life.”

The Heavy Price of Passion

But as we all know, every good thing must come to an end.

As of October 30th, 2024, I’ve decided to close my music school for good. I’ll be honest; I’m struggling to accept this decision. There’s a part of me that feels like a failure.

I’ve tried to rationalize my choice, telling myself that I had shut down the school once before at the end of 2023. I reconnected with a colleague in early 2022, thinking opening a school under his franchise would align with my vision for music education. I signed a five-year contract and poured nearly all my savings—around $150,000—into this venture.

The Battle Within

But it was a battle from the start. Arguments with the franchisor erupted daily. Internally, I grappled with leading a diverse team of personalities. Ultimately, I ended the contract just 14 months in.

When I relaunched my school at the beginning of 2024, I hoped to build something better, to avoid the mistakes of the past. But letting go of the franchisor didn’t magically make my other problems disappear. I started 2024 with just $2,000 in my bank account, desperately needing to create a new team and rebuild my reputation.

I was teetering on the brink of financial ruin. Every three months, I faced the dread of my bank account dropping to zero. I struggled to unite my team and align our values, including my own. But the biggest weight was my mental health.

The Masks We Wear

I’ve spoken about my battles with depression and suicidal thoughts in this newsletter, but I want to be honest—I never sought the help I truly needed. I ignored my burnout, dismissing the reality that I no longer wanted to run a music school. That was the hardest pill to swallow.

For so long, my identity was wrapped up in music. On stage, I felt like I mattered. In the classroom, I felt valued. But when I stepped away from those spaces, I felt like a shadow of myself.

Finding Light in the Darkness

By October, I could barely get out of bed, the dread settling deep in my chest. I feared I would grow to resent the music that had once brought me so much joy.

That fear, however, taught me a lesson. I had defined my worth by my performances and the smiles of my students. I measured my existence by my contributions to society. It was a dizzying way to live, and by that standard, I felt like a failure most days.

But looking back, I realize I’ve achieved something, not many people can claim:

• I’ve managed to build a life as a musician. I kept my business afloat for two years and even turned a minor profit. I taught over 1,000 students, yet I only saw the few who stopped lessons with me.

The Gift of Connection

In the face of shutting down my school, I’ve learned that failure is not a final verdict; it’s part of the journey. I’ve met remarkable people along the way—children who reminded me of the importance of enthusiasm, parents who shared their wisdom on life and love, and fellow business owners who offered their support.

Music isn’t just about the notes we play or the albums we sell. It’s about the lives we touch and the connections we make. Through this process, I discovered an unexpected truth: I have more resilience and strength than I ever thought possible. For every doubt and insecurity, I found a way to push through.

Every End Is a New Beginning

As I close this chapter, I want to leave you with a couple of reminders.

First, as a musician, you will face more bad days than good, especially in the beginning. Before you find success, most of your days will feel like failures. But that’s okay.

Failure is inevitable, but it isn’t permanent.

As I step away from my music school, I remind myself that beyond this one big failure, there were countless successes along the way.

So, to anyone feeling lost, know this: it’s the journey that shapes us, the connections we forge, and the strength we discover along the way.

Thank you so much for being part of this journey with me.

The most rewarding part of this journey has been the community I’ve built—200 subscribers to my newsletter who find comfort in my story.

Maybe this is what growing up into my 30s looks like…

I look forward to what comes next with you all!

Thank you so much for taking 5 minutes of your day to read my newsletter.

I really appreciate it and I hope it helped you navigate your own battle with failure.

Before I leave you, I want to ask a tiny favour from you:

Let me know what resonates most with you! I want to make sure any paid content serves you in the best way possible.

Of course, if the free version of my newsletter is sufficient for you, that’s totally fine.

Thank you for being part of this journey and supporting my work.

Please take care of yourself and I’ll see you next week!

Yours truly, Brian.