for anyone walking into the unknown this week—you’re braver than you feel.
may this melody meet you where you are.
The Years That Took—and the Years That Gave
I took a hiatus from playing the bass. Not because I wanted to quit, but because life kept changing shape and my focus was needed elsewhere.
Somewhere in the mix of balancing jobs, working late nights, on-call pings when I should’ve been on vacation, the gift and stretch of becoming a parent, and losing both of my parents within a year, I lost track of my own instrument. I could still feel the outline of it—muscle memory, calluses that never fully left—but time and energy slipped to the edges of my days.
For over two decades I played, performed, and recorded bass professionally. Then I chased stability. At the time, it felt like the right decision. I finally had health insurance and a steady paycheck, and I could breathe for a while.
That choice came with a cost. The short-term brought calm, but the long-term pulled me farther from the parts of myself that felt most alive. I grieved that distance for years—grief not just for the people I lost, but for the player I used to be.
And yet, not everything disappeared. Some loves don’t. They change shape and wait for you to find them again.
If you’re returning to the instrument too, explore more posts in Music & Bass.
Two Roads Back: The High Road and the Low Road
Some returns are clear and fast. Others happen inside you first. Both count.
What the “two roads” feel like (for me)
| Road back | What it feels like | A week looks like | Musical analogue |
| High road | Energy, clarity, time on your side | A few focused sessions, momentum visible | Confident melody, fuller harmony |
| Low road | Tender, internal, permission to be small | A stolen 15–20 minutes, presence > progress | Open-string drone, honest line, space |
detours aren’t endings. take the road you can; I’ll meet you there.
What Was Lost, What Remains
A simple inventory
| Lost/Grieved | Remained/Gained | What it taught me |
| Time I thought I’d have forever | A stubborn love for sound | Show up; presence is the metric |
| A clear, fixed identity as “only” a musician | A wider self (parent, builder, musician) | Identities can braid, not compete |
| The story that money = worth | Joy and curiosity as drivers | Worth isn’t a paycheck; it’s a pulse |
| Certainty | Capacity for quiet courage | Tiny steps still count as movement |
Why “Loch Lomond” Now (Loch Lomond solo bass)
“Loch Lomond” holds both ache and homecoming in the same breath. I kept my arrangement simple: open low E humming like a small set of pipes, an honest melody, and space where the water might be.
when life gets loud, a small melody can be enough to keep a light on.
If you’re in a week that’s asking too much, maybe you know what I mean. Grief isn’t only funerals and anniversaries. It’s the quiet realization that a chapter ended while you were busy surviving. It’s the version of you who waited patiently in the corner while you handled life.
A Shoreline for Hard Weeks
This song is a companion, not a fix. On high-road days, I can play with confidence. On low-road days, I let the bass ring and breathe. Either way, I hear permission: you’re braver than you feel.
some loves don’t leave; they change shape and keep us company.
The Promise I’m Making (to myself… for now)
- Measure progress in presence.
- Celebrate quiet sessions. Even one note that rings a little longer counts
- Follow joy and curiosity first. Let money and metrics be tools, not rulers.
- Keep a light on. For me, and for anyone finding their way back.
Dedication & Invitation
If this met you, pass it to one person who might need a little company for their road. And if you feel like sharing, I’d love to know what “home” sounds like to you.
