I remember how I used to picture my life at this age, five or ten years ago. I thought by the time I was in my mid-30s, heading toward 40, I’d feel settled. Life would make sense. I’d have overcome the depression and anxiety I’ve battled with for as long as I can remember. My touring music career would be reaching new heights—if it wasn’t already there. I’d have a solid group of friends I saw regularly, a community I could rely on. I would feel financially secure. Nashville would still feel like home, the place I was meant to be. I might even be married.

But here I am, in my mid-30s, in my 16th year in Nashville, and my life is nowhere near what I pictured.

I’ve struggled to write for the past year. I’ve started a blog update more times than I can count, but I’ve never felt like I could find the right words. They still don’t feel right today, but I need to write something. Anything. I need to give myself a voice, or else I feel adrift—lost and alone in the ocean (my current analogy for life)—yelling into what feels like a void. I want someone, anyone, to hear me. It’s not so much a cry for help as it is a declaration: I’m a human being who deserves to be seen, heard, and acknowledged.

I’ve isolated myself a lot this past year. While it was my way of feeling “safe,” it also caused me to lose touch with myself. I became paralyzed. Directionless. In a word, I was lost. I’m still lost, but the paralysis is starting to wear off. I know I’ve got to move forward, even if it’s in small steps.

Okay, maybe I jumped in a little too deep there. Let me backtrack and give some context for where I’m at now...

In April 2024, I was unexpectedly let go from my gig. I had just received my first paycheck when it happened, and it was only a week before tour rehearsals were set to begin. To say I was in shock would be an understatement. I sat, emotionless, staring out my apartment window, trying to process what had just happened and what it meant for me going forward—both for the rest of the year and for my career. After the shock wore off, I knew I had to take action.

I reached out to everyone I knew in the music industry, hoping for some kind of connection, a lead, reassurance. Everyone I talked to told me this would end up being a good thing. They assured me I was well-respected in town, and that something else would come along. With those reassurances, I focused on staying positive. I maintained my physical and mental health, stayed diligent in practicing bass to keep my skills sharp, and kept believing that everything would work out. Surely, I wouldn’t be out of work for too long.

My philosophy has always been to save money as if I might lose a gig, then hold steady and wait for the next one. It’s worked for me in the past. Until now.

Today, I’m still without a gig. Last year, I got very few calls for work. Every month, I’d try for a “reset,” hoping something would come my way. But by the end of each month, nothing had changed. This cycle repeated for months. By the time fall came around, I was struggling just to reset each month. Time just kept rolling by, and nothing seemed to shift. I found it hard to focus on my mental and physical health. I stopped working out like I used to. My diet went to shit. I pushed down a lot of hard feelings, fears and pain instead of facing them.

At some point, I started to feel like I’d lost my sense of self and my community. Nashville’s music scene has always been known for its tight-knit community, but I began to feel abandoned by it. It was as if, because I wasn’t on a significant gig anymore, I no longer had value. I felt forgotten. A friend once told me, when I was struggling to land a full-time tour, “You kinda have to have a gig to GET a gig.” Man, does that feel more true now than ever.

This is where I started to feel paralyzed. What the hell do I do if I can’t play bass and tour? It’s all I’ve known for the last decade. It’s what I’ve dreamed about since I was a kid. It’s what I loved doing. And as much as I hate to admit it, because I believe everyone’s worth is far greater than their job, music and touring were (and still are) a major part of my identity. The questions that kept me up at night were: Who am I without it? Can I be happy doing something else?

I questioned everything. What did I do wrong? Am I not a good bass player? Will I ever work at that level again? Is this the end of touring for me? Am I even liked here? Is Nashville still the place I’m supposed to be?

I lost a lot of confidence—both as a player and as a person.

Seeing so many colleagues achieving huge milestones, from massive stadium tours to playing awards shows, made it even harder. I’m genuinely happy for them, but it’s hard not to compare their careers to mine. I know everyone’s journey and timeline is different, but I don’t even know where my journey is taking me right now. Is it still in music? Is it time to pursue another career path? What if I’m not ready for that?

I’ve always known music wouldn’t be my forever career—it’s just too difficult, and the nature of the industry tends to favor younger, cheaper talent. Priorities shift as you get older and 100+ dates a year on the road just isn’t as appealing as it was when I was 22.  But I thought I’d at least get to walk away on my own terms. Maybe I’ll still get that opportunity, but it feels like a million miles away right now.

To top it off, the last month or so has been extremely difficult. I found out I needed braces (Invisalign) for the second time in my life, which, while a minor inconvenience, comes with a pretty big unexpected expense. Days before Christmas, my parents had to make the painful decision to put our dog Dallas down. He had been mine for several years before my touring schedule got too busy, and my parents took him in to keep him in the family so I could still see him. I’m forever grateful to them for that, as I was able to say goodbye and love on him as he passed. Then, right after the New Year, my relationship ended, taking with it all the future plans we had made. These two huge losses, so close together, broke me into pieces. For days, all I could do was lay on the couch, cry, and sleep.

Two weeks later, my car broke down, and I had to buy a new one. Another huge unexpected expense. All the while, I was packing up my apartment and moving things into storage, since my lease was ending on January 26th. And then, I had to make the difficult decision to move in with my parents in Nashville, while I figure out what’s next (thank you, mom and dad for letting me crash for a bit!). I couldn’t justify spending any more of my savings on rent when I didn’t have a clear direction for the future.

They say life kicks you when you’re down... I can confirm that’s true! Ha!

I’ve been open about my depression and anxiety on here and social media, and I think these events would put anyone into a depressive state, at least temporarily. For me, it’s made it harder to combat those darker feelings. After the financial struggles, the heartbreaks, feeling more lost than ever, and—let’s not forget— the state of the world (seriously, what the fuck is going on out there?), I’m just proud of myself for getting out of bed each morning. I told my therapist recently that, some days, it feels like the easiest and safest thing would be to crawl into a hole and disappear.

I never imagined my life would look this way at nearly 36. Unemployed. Living with my parents. Needing braces again. Single, and alone once more. I feel like I’ve been transported back to my teenage years. I feel like a complete failure and a loser. Like a shell of my former self.

But I know life has seasons. We’re meant to weather the storms, hoping things will get better. Life is a rollercoaster, with its ups and downs. We’re supposed to enjoy the ride anyway. Right now, it feels like my ride has broken down and needs some serious maintenance before it can get back on track. What that means exactly, I don’t know.

For now, I’ll do my best to get out of bed every day, put one foot in front of the other, and try to find myself again. I’ll try to hold on to hope for better days ahead. Most days, my hope is stronger than my fear of the unknown.

With that, I hope to see y’all down the road this year…