The Myth of Spare Time

When you're young, people often tell you that you can always come back to your passions later.

"Get your career sorted first."

"Music will always be there."

"What if it doesn't work out?"

Looking back, I understand why people said those things.

They wanted security for me.

What they didn't understand was that careers don't simply take your time.

They take your energy.

Every working day demanded a little more.

Early starts.

Long commutes.

Deadlines.

Stress.

Responsibility.

Feeling like you're in an alien tribe.

By the time I got home each evening, I wasn't inspired.

I wasn't creative.

I wasn't even thinking about writing songs.

I was thinking about getting enough sleep to do it all again tomorrow.

Weekends became recovery days instead of creative days.

The guitar gathered dust.

Ideas stayed inside notebooks.

Songs remained unfinished.

Music slowly became something I used to do rather than something I lived for.

The strange thing was that from the outside, everything looked successful.

I had done exactly what people told me to do.

I was building a career.

But inside, something was missing.

Watching the System from the Inside

One experience shaped me more than I realised at the time.

I watched my dad work incredibly hard throughout his life.

He gave everything to his employer.

Years of loyalty.

Years of commitment.

Years of turning up and doing the right thing.

Then he became ill.

Suddenly the loyalty he'd shown wasn't returned.

The system simply moved on.

Watching that happen changed something in me.

It planted a question that stayed in the back of my mind for years.

"If that's how hard work is rewarded, what exactly am I working towards?"

At the time, I ignored the question.

I carried on doing what I thought I was supposed to do.

Keep working.

Keep climbing.

Keep chasing success.

Eventually everything would make sense.

Looking for Something That Actually Mattered

When you're stripped back to nothing, you start asking different questions.

Questions you never ask when life is comfortable.

What actually makes me happy?

What gives my life meaning?

What would I still choose to do even if nobody was paying me?

Every answer pointed in the same direction.

Music.

Not because I thought it would make me famous.

Not because I believed it would make me rich.

Because it was the only thing that made me feel alive.

So I made a decision that changed everything.

I bought some basic recording equipment.

Nothing fancy.

Just enough to start writing again.

It felt strange at first.

Like meeting an old friend you'd lost touch with years earlier.

The first songs weren't perfect.

Some were terrible.

Some never got finished.

But none of that mattered.

Because something unexpected started happening.

Every time I created something, I felt better.

Not permanently.

Not magically.

But enough.

Enough to notice.

Enough to keep going.

The Power of Creating Something

There is something incredibly satisfying about creating.

At the end of a difficult day, you have something tangible.

A song.

A lyric.

A guitar riff.

A demo.

A recording.

You made something that didn't exist yesterday.

That feeling is difficult to explain to someone who's never experienced it.

Creating doesn't solve every problem.

It doesn't remove grief.

It doesn't eliminate anxiety.

It doesn't stop difficult things happening.

But it gives your mind somewhere else to go.

For a while, the constant noise inside your head quietens.

You stop thinking about tomorrow.

Or yesterday.

You're completely present.

You become absorbed in making something.

And for those moments, that's enough.

Looking back now, I don't think I realised it then, but music wasn't simply becoming a hobby again.

It was becoming a lifeline.

Chasing the Wrong Definition of Success

Like many musicians, I still believed there was only one way to succeed.

You had to "make it."

Get signed.

Tour.

Be famous.

Sell records.

Play festivals.

Anything less somehow meant you'd failed.

I now realise that belief put enormous pressure on me.

Pressure to achieve.

Pressure to prove people wrong.

Pressure to justify choosing music.

At the time, though, I couldn't see it.

I thought I simply needed to work harder.

Write better songs.

Practise more.

Push further.

Surely then I'd finally "make it."

I had no idea that the biggest lesson music would teach me had absolutely nothing to do with success.

It had everything to do with happiness.

And that lesson was about to arrive in the form of a band.

Dave xxx

Coming in Part 2 - When Music Stopped Being About "Making It"

The Best Therapy I Never Knew I Needed

People often ask why musicians spend so much time rehearsing.

It's easy to assume it's all about getting tighter as a band or preparing for gigs.

Of course that's part of it.

But there's something much deeper happening.

When you're completely absorbed in making music, your mind doesn't have room for everything else.

You're listening.

Reacting.

Creating.

Working together.

It's one of the few times in life when you're completely present.

Long before I understood anything about mindfulness or mental wellbeing, music had quietly become both.

I didn't go into a rehearsal thinking I was improving my mental health.

I went because it was fun.

The fact that I always came home feeling lighter was just an unexpected bonus.

Chasing Gigs Instead of Success

As the band improved, opportunities started appearing.

More gigs.

Bigger audiences.

New venues.

People we'd never met were singing our songs back to us.

For any independent musician, those moments are unforgettable.

Someone you've never met takes time out of their day to listen to something you created.

That's a remarkable feeling.

We also started meeting bands we'd admired for years.

Some turned out to be exactly the people we'd hoped they'd be.

Others reminded us that success doesn't automatically make people happy.

It was an important lesson.

From the outside, it's easy to imagine that once you've reached a certain level everything falls into place.

The reality is often much more complicated.

Every artist is carrying something.

Every band has struggles that nobody in the audience ever sees.