The question:
How do I know when it's time to give up? In my case it refers to my goal/dream of becoming a full-time musician but I would love to hear your thoughts on different aspects of life like career paths/choices, jobs, projects, art, hobbies, cities/places to live and relationships with lovers, friends, family members... I just can't put my finger on it if the anxious feeling I get when thinking about my goal is because of fear of failure, self-limiting voices of the past, low self-esteem, comparison with others, or in fact my intuition telling me it's just not right for me even after having invested lots of time and effort.
The suggestion:
You were given a great gift. I don't know whether you have the voice of a canary or if you're a harpsichord prodigy or if your banjo-playing moves thousands to tears, but I trust that your musical talent is something very special.
Music is a miraculous thing. It's mysterious, overwhelming, transformative. One of my earliest memories is going to the guitar store with my dad, a full-time musician himself, and hearing someone test out a piano by playing a simple tune. It stirred something in me so visceral that I began to cry and couldn't stop.
The song was more than beautiful: it warmed up my whole body. I was probably around two or three years old; music spoke an ancient language that my soul knew before I had words to understand it. I'm participating in this primordial experience with the song I'm listening to right now, giving thanks for all the talent and bravery that led it to my ears.
Musicians capture and create this magical language so the rest of us can be in awe of its power. But, as you've observed, sometimes magic and making a living don't work well together.
Make no mistake: I believe when we are given a special gift, it is our responsibility to share it as long as we are able, whether you play guitar for strangers under the overpass or you compose a symphony for the New York Philharmonic. Creativity is an act of service.
Yet it's a very unusual person who is able to be sensitive enough to create art, yet tough enough to thrive under the pressure of turning that art into a full-time job. And there is nothing, absolutely nothing, wrong with getting to a point where you say with full sovereignty, "No thanks, this full-time artist dream is not for me. I'm a brilliant sensitive genius lightning bug who would prefer to keep my music and my money separate, for the most part."
This doesn't mean you're not strong enough. It doesn't mean you should have healed all your fears and limiting beliefs by now. It doesn't mean you're not a real musician. It doesn't mean you have commitment issues. It just means that you're choosing to change the way you share your gift with the world.
Maybe music lost a little of its mysterious, overwhelming, and transformative qualities for you when it became intertwined with your ability to pay rent.
Remember the piano tune that warmed up my whole body? I learned to put faith in that feeling from a young age. Cheryl Strayed calls this trusting the heat. Strong bodily sensations tell us what moves us, what nourishes us, what threatens us, and what is not serving us. Anxiety is one of these sensations, and it has a lot to say if we listen.
No matter the source of your anxious feeling, it doesn't sound pleasant. It's not the same butterflies you get before you go on stage, or the bellyflop you get before you release a song. It sounds like the anxious feeling is one of constriction, and the last thing I'd want is for your precious miraculous gift of music to have to conform to something that doesn't feel liberating, but limiting.
I suspect you wrote to me because you want permission: to be free again. Free from the confines of turning your beloved talent into something sustainable in a financial framework that doesn't value creative work as highly as, say, pharmaceutical sales. Free to make music for yourself first, for others second. Free to stop being a martyr for something magical. Free to stop trying so, so hard.
Or maybe I'm projecting because this is how I've felt in the past. A few years ago I realized that my way of writing and making art—particularly the sharing of it—wasn't working. I was telling myself that my creativity belonged to other people, not to me. While I once felt childlike wonder and possibility when I picked up paintbrushes, I began to feel restricted and obligated, like a short-order cook churning out the same side salad over and over.
If you're feeling that same sort of restriction, I'm pleading on behalf of your special gift to change the way you're doing things. Perhaps start with fully embracing the idea of a day job.
Having a day job as an artist is not only common, but almost always necessary. I have a musician friend with many albums and an international tour who works at a bookstore; I know Broadway actors who have starred in shows and continued to work as waiters. A quick Google search suggests there are many more:
I know you've invested a lot of time and effort into the goal of making music your full-time endeavor, but do you want to invest more effort when you know you'd rather take a different path?
Maybe the investment made sense for a few years, and now it doesn't. You know more now. You have other priorities. You have a different perspective. You're never going to lose the music, you're just adjusting your relationship with it. This is a natural part of artistic evolution, and will no doubt contribute to the next level of your work (imagine how wide and high you can grow when you're not busy comparing yourself).
Music is your gift, and surely you've graced many others with your talent. Now it's time to give yourself a gift: making music without so much anxiety. Don't give up the joy of something you love for an idea of yourself that isn't true anymore.
As for the rest of your question about when it's time to quit career paths/choices, jobs, projects, art, hobbies, cities/places to live and relationships, I leave as soon as I realize I want permission to do so. I quit when I find myself wishing I were "allowed" to. This begins with trusting the heat.
Sometimes the quitting takes months or years. The process of letting go involves a lot of self-assurance, a lot of compassion, and then, a lot of grief. Oftentimes leaving leads to a major shift in identity, and it takes time to get to know the new you.
But when you let go, you allow space for something else, something different. Your hands are clinging on so tight to a dream that is suffocating, and voicing its struggle loud and clear. When you let go, they are wide open to new possibilities. What will you receive?
If you have a question for May I Suggest, send it to: studio@bymariandrew.com.
Welcome to Out of the Blue, a weekly reflection on something that's caught my attention, and an attempt to learn deep lessons from the shallow and light wisdom from the dark. If you haven't subscribed yet, sign up for free here!