Why I Still Believe in Making Art, Even When It’s Hard — and Falling Back in Love With Music
Have you ever wanted something so badly that it basically became your entire personality?
Yeah… hi, it’s me.
I used to eat, sleep, and drink music. I was that kid growing up. My girlfriend’s parents would hear a song on the radio and immediately ask, “Paul, who is this?” and unless it was underwater Mongolian throat singing, I probably knew—especially if it lived anywhere near the rock, funk, or blues universe.
Music was all I wanted to do. All I could think about. All I wanted to embody. Somewhere in my brain I decided that if I didn’t make a living from music, then I’d never experience true happiness, joy, or even enjoy a mediocre slice of pizza again.
And then life—being the weird, wobbly, unpredictable thing it is—introduced me to burnout, exhaustion, perfectionism, self-doubt, and the very niche desire to have everyone like me all the time. The more people I played for, the more bands I hopped in and out of, and the more praise I collected like birthday cards… the more disconnected I became from literally everything around me. At some point, I realized I was starting to resent the very thing that used to be my peace and joy.
Music had become my enemy. I did not see that plot twist coming.
When I finally took the pressure off myself to turn music into a job, I sort of proverbially put my instruments in their cases, patted them gently, and said, “Whelp I should fold my laundry.” I convinced myself I needed to pivot—find something I liked that wouldn’t emotionally body-slam me. It was a dramatic shift (I do that sometimes), but after dedicating my whole life to music, deciding overnight to make it a hobby felt like pulling the emergency brake at 80 mph.
But here’s the truth: music was never the problem.
It was my perception of music—the story I’d told myself about what it had to be.
Somewhere along the way, I convinced myself that “success” in music meant money, millions of fans, and Spotify checks big enough to buy a yacht (or at least a nice sandwich). But that view was backwards. There is no “way” to music.
Music is the way.
I lost sight of why I ever started: because it was fun. Because I loved spending those beautifully bittersweet hours alone in my room mastering an instrument. Because I loved sitting around campfires, strumming with friends, singing with people I cared about. Music was a gift—something that kept life colorful, not something to stress over like taxes or parking in downtown Bend.
I’ve always loved things that are a little odd, a little messy, a little imperfect—probably because I’m also a little odd, messy, and imperfect in the most endearing way (or so I tell myself). The Japanese even have a word for this: Wabi-Sabi, the beauty of imperfection.
Today, I make music on my terms, with an open and loving heart. I write songs when they come, not because the algorithm needs them. I don’t stress about perfect takes or flawless recordings. When I listen back to older tracks, instead of obsessing over whether the crash cymbal hit on the “and” of 4 instead of beat 4, I smile. That imperfect moment is what makes the whole thing human. And honestly? I find those little flaws to be the most beautiful part.
Now, when I play music, I do it because it brings me joy and compassion—not because I want fame or millions of fans cheering my name from a stadium (though, to be clear, if that accidentally happens one day, I’ll act humble).
Today, I love who I am and I like what I do. And if you ever feel like you’re giving up on a dream, maybe you’re not giving up at all—maybe you’re letting go of your old perception of the dream. Maybe you’re making space for a version that brings peace, fulfillment, and joy, without sacrificing your wellbeing or your sanity
Best regards,
Paul
