So Now What's Left
You know, even when you finally get all the answers, they never really make things okay. It's almost like the answers don't matter, not really. What matters is that we're here now, carrying everything that's happened—struggles, pain, anger, betrayal, vanity, all that backstabbing. That's life sometimes. Nobody warns you that growing up means learning to carry so much.
The Weight We Carry
We spend so much of our lives searching for answers. Why did this happen to me? What did I do wrong? How could they do that? We convince ourselves that if we just understand everything, we'll finally find peace. But I've learned that understanding doesn't magically heal the wounds. The scars remain, even when you know exactly how they got there.
Music has always been my way of carrying the weight. When words fail in conversation, somehow they find their way into lyrics. The melody becomes the container that holds what's too heavy to speak. That's the beauty of songwriting—it gives shape to the shapeless burdens we carry.
I've met hundreds of musicians over the years, teaching them chords and rhythms, and the best ones aren't necessarily the most technically skilled. They're the ones who've lived through something real. They're the ones who understand that music isn't about perfection—it's about expression. It's about finding somewhere to put all those feelings that have nowhere else to go.
The Instruments of Survival
Music has saved my life more times than I can count. When the weight became too much, when the loneliness threatened to swallow me whole, I'd pick up a guitar and let my fingers find the chords. Sometimes I didn't even know what I was playing—I just needed to make sound, to feel something vibrating against my chest, to know I was still alive.
That's what I try to teach my students now. Beyond the scales and the theory, beyond the performances and recordings—music is a survival tool. It's as essential as breathing for some of us. It doesn't solve our problems or erase our pain, but it gives us somewhere to put it all, somewhere outside ourselves where we can look at it, understand it a little better.
I've watched students transform through this process. The businessman who came to me after his divorce, unable to talk about his feelings but somehow able to play them on the piano. The teenager dealing with bullying who found her power behind a drum kit. The elderly man who picked up the guitar after his wife died, not to become a musician but simply to have something to hold onto when the grief became too much.
These are the real victories in music. Not the performances or the recordings or the technical achievements—but the moments when music becomes the bridge between isolation and connection, between silence and expression.
Carrying the Melody Forward
Growing up means learning to carry so much. No one tells you this when you're young. We're led to believe that adulthood brings freedom, but really it brings responsibility—not just for practical matters but for our own emotional well-being.
Music teaches us how to carry difficult things with grace. A sad lyric paired with a beautiful melody creates something whole from something broken. A dissonant chord that resolves reminds us that tension can lead to harmony. A steady rhythm beneath changing notes shows us how to find stability amid chaos.
These aren't just musical concepts—they're life lessons. And they're the real curriculum behind every music lesson I teach. Yes, we'll learn the chords and the scales and the proper technique. But more importantly, we'll learn how music helps us carry what might otherwise be unbearable.
Finding Your Voice Among the Voices
I've come to see those voices in my head not as intrusions but as creative companions. They're the characters in my songs, the different perspectives that make my music richer, more complex. Sometimes they argue with each other. Sometimes they harmonize. But they're always there, keeping me company when the external world feels empty.
This is what I mean when I tell my students to "find their voice." It's not about singing technique or vocal quality—it's about identifying that authentic expression that belongs to you alone. It might be influenced by others, shaped by experiences, even fragmented by trauma, but it remains uniquely yours.
And here's the beautiful thing about sharing that voice through music: sometimes, miraculously, it speaks directly to someone else's experience. Your song becomes their comfort. Your melody carries their burden for a while. Your lyrics give words to feelings they couldn't express.
In those moments, the loneliness lifts a little. The weight feels lighter. The voices in your head have found their purpose—connection.
So Now What's Left?
After all the searching, all the understanding, all the carrying—what's left? Just this moment. Just this opportunity to transform pain into beauty, isolation into connection, silence into song.
That's enough. It has to be.
And maybe, just maybe, that's why music matters so much. Not because it solves our problems or answers our questions, but because it reminds us that we're not alone in asking them. Every blues chord, every minor key, every ragged voice singing about heartbreak—they all say the same thing: "I've been there too. I'm carrying it too. You're not alone."
So now what's left? Everything that matters. Your story. Your song. Your voice—however broken, however beautiful. That's what's left. And that's what we build from, note by note, word by word, day by day.
And sometimes, that's just enough to get through.
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