It feels way too simple to say that showing up is enough. It feels too simple to say putting up posters is enough. That talking to someone is enough. That my playing is enough. That I am enough.
But what if that is all it takes? Is it possible that just surrounding yourself with opportunity is enough to be a part of it? That maybe the best people come into your life easily and stay? That the best musicians are made as a team?
Am I willing to give up the idea that this has to be hard? Am I willing to put my faith into God that, so long as I show up, I will be guided through the rest?
I came across this thought in my journal on January 21, 2026 as part of an ongoing revelation on the ways my struggles are self-induced. Since middle school, I’ve held onto multiple addictions (including sugar, video games, and social media) which have made connection feel performative at best.
I decided at the turn of the New Year to quit them all cold turkey, and am proud to say I’ve just passed the one month mark on all of them. Although I still face withdrawls and grief from time to time, I see these as challenges which require creative solutions. “Weightlifting” reps in the form of social interactions and intentional relaxation. Going to new clubs, jazz jams, etc. From doing this, there’s a greater appreciation for presence, a better connection with those around me. I think it’s the disconnection from social media that forced be to seek real connection elsewhere. It’s made my relationships feel more real and less comparative. If nothing else, my self-esteem has shot up greatly. So much so, that after two years of deliberation, I finally played my first Jazz Jam.
I was terrified. Honestly, still shaking it off. Playing a genre you don’t know well among professionals in the field in front of an audience…nothing quite crawls through your skin after something like this. But after a certain point, you just have to say “screw it.”
The past two years of my drum practice were self-motivated and directed towards goals that I had little feedback for. While I did grow quite a bit, going out of my comfort zone to play my first jazz jam provided me with more real world experience, feedback, and connection that 1000 hours alone in a basement ever could. These were the biggest lessons from this:
- We can’t create time. We can only serve it. There’s a shared sense of time when we play together, and among professionals that pocket is massive.
- Playing with the song (as opposed to on top of it) is a matter of letting go of the need to micromanage your own part. You get in groove by listening.
- You have to earn your fills.
- Listening can become a form of meditation if you allow it.
These lessons allowed me to revise my practice to account for actual weaknesses. Adding active listening, endurance with groove, and playing the steady timekeeper into my practice.
I want to end with a quote from Stephen Pressfield’s Turning Pro.
In a way I was lucky that I experienced failure for so many years. Because there were no conventional rewards, I was forced to ask myself, Why am I doing this? Am I crazy? All my friends are making money and settling down and living normal lives. What the hell am I doing? Am I nuts? What’s wrong with me?
In the end I answered the question by realizing that I had no choice. I couldn’t do anything else. When I tried, I got so depressed I couldn’t stand it. So when I wrote yet another novel or screenplay that I couldn’t sell, I had no choice but to write another after that.
The truth was, I was enjoying myself. Maybe nobody else liked the stuff I was doing, but I did. I was learning. I was getting better. The work became, in its own demented way, a practice. It sustained me, and it sustains me still.
Happy drumming!