When people introduce themselves, they typically talk about their job, where they are from, and their hobbies.
I could write a similar introduction for myself, and I probably will. These surface level details do have utility. They provide the minimum necessary context required to interact with an individual as an individual. They turn a person from an extra you didn’t even notice in a movie into an NPC you bump into in a video game. They give you one or two personality traits, just a taste of who someone is, and this taste allows you to determine whether you want to invest more time into this relationship or spend time in better ways.
This is kind of a top-down view of a person. You learn the broad details and zoom in from there.
Unfortunately for me, right now all of my surface level details kind of point to me being a loser. I can tell based on how people interact with me when I tell them these details: immediate disinterest. I constantly feel like the version of myself the world is interacting with is a caricature of me. There’s some loose resemblance to the real thing, but a few key details are extremely exaggerated and others are missing altogether.
But who am I really? The truth is, I don’t know. I’m learning a lot about that myself from the posts I’ve been drafting for this blog. But I can tell you a story, and this story will give you a little piece. A little piece of the genuine me. Maybe in time, if I reveal enough pieces, I can express (and learn) who I am in a more bottom-up fashion. The pieces will assemble to reveal a broader picture.
In any case, here is that first piece. This is that story.
In 2023, I graduated with my bachelor’s degree in Music Technology. I weathered the years of doubts imposed on me by others, wore the cap and gown, and finally entered the real world. My friends and family eagerly awaited what kind of life I intended to make out of this very unconventional degree choice. But what they didn’t know, what I hadn’t fully verbalized to myself until a few months before graduation, is that I had burnt out on music over a year before.
It’s a tale as old as time. You see a distant relative, and she asks you about your major. After hearing the word “music,” you are met with an incredulous look and The Question:
“And what do you plan to do with that?”
During the year leading up to graduation, these conversations became increasingly distasteful to me. Rather than answering with the confidence born of passion, my responses became more of a script, one that was written when the flame still hadn’t fully been extinguished.
“Well, I can move to a city and intern for a music production company.”
This was a blatant lie, although I hadn’t fully realized it yet. I hadn’t consistently written music in months. Every time I tried to repair my relationship with the medium as some last ditch effort to preserve my identity, I was pushed to the ground and kicked in the stomach. So when I was faced with the choice of moving to a city or staying close to my loved ones, the answer was clear.
Now, I live in the fallout of this broken dream.
After graduation, finally free of being a professional “music student,” I could finally admit to myself and others that the dream was dead. Miraculously, this was exactly when everyone found their support for my musical journey. Emotions ranged from frustration to disappointment.
“So you just stopped making music?”
“Now it’s right on to the next ‘passion,’ isn’t it?”
“What do you plan to do now?”
What I plan to do now is the only thing I can do. Work as hard as I possibly can, develop meaningful skills, and turn myself into someone great. Unfortunately, the way I define these things seems different from the way everyone else does.
Herein lies the paradox of my friends and family: even amongst all of these cherished people, I still walk alone. I have a long-term vision that only I can see. I’ve tried showing it to others, and they can’t quite make it out. And it’s true, the picture is grainy and far away, but I can still see it. And it motivates me.
This is the Grind.
I have to develop my body. I have to be as good as I possibly can be at jiu jitsu. I have to take my mind from this dull lump of steel and beat it into a blade. I have to spend as much time as I possibly can with my loved ones, because they are not here forever.
How will that make me money? How will that make me successful?
The truth is, I don’t know.
I only have a glimmer. A grainy, far off picture. A picture of a man that is capable of handling what life throws at him. A picture of a man that is known and respected in his community.
Will I get there?
Well, the best answer to that is: where else do I have to go?
And truth be told, I have a lot of advantages over the version of myself who chased after music. I have a jiu jitsu team that actually wants to get better at jiu jitsu. I have an understanding of myself and of the world that is vastly better than the one I had in college. And I still have all of the drive I had back when I sacrificed every single other opportunity to my passion.
People make it sound like I’ll never learn because I am still chasing a dream. But they have no idea how much I’ve learned from chasing a dream.
That is a truly small piece of the real me. But to me, it is far more telling than my job, or where I live, or any other surface-level details that might help you contextualize my life.
I live in the fallout of a broken dream. But somewhere, amongst all of the pieces, I survived.
And I’m still moving forward.