Where I’ve Been: A (Female) Musician’s Thoughts on Burnout, Self-Care, and Art as a Business

“Build an email list. You should play that venue — all the cool people are. Email those venue bookers. But don’t say it that way, they’ll never book you if you say that. Post on social media at 8am on a Sunday. Don’t forget to watch the analytics. Make the scene — you need to show your face and network. Release an album. But market it first — you have to build anticipation. Send more emails. Post on social media. Engage your audience — end each post with a call to action. Release a single. Make a music video. Your album is taking too long to record. Don’t pass up this opportunity.”

This time last year I left work, bolted home, loaded my car with gear in a bitterly cold, late-Winter downpour, and spent rush hour on 95-North headed for Boston where I would spend the next couple of hours singing my heart and soul to 5 people. This was what I asked for. This was what I was meant to do. This was the one thing I loved the most.

Right?

“Do your vocal exercises. Don’t write every song with the same 3 chords. You should write an upbeat song — you’re too depressing. Your guitar chops are weak, you need to practice more. Humidify your guitar. You sound too much like a Disney Princess — you should try to sound more like Ariana Grande. Your gear is outdated. Write more songs, you’ve played these to death. Your songs all sound the same. You don’t fit in. You’ll never be as good as she is, so why bother?”

And yet there I was, my eyes clouded by tears and the glare of the other cars’ taillights through rain on the windshield, trying to psych myself up because I didn’t want to have to explain myself to my boyfriend in the passenger’s seat. I didn’t know how, anyway. The only words repeating in my brain,

“I don’t want to do this.”

I didn’t want to lug my gear in the rain. Again. I didn’t want to smile and sing and drive home another hour, only to get up for work the next morning, pick up my kids from school and be in balls-to-the-wall single-mom mode for the weekend. I wanted to head home from work, make a nice dinner, and relax on my couch like normal people do.

Only 7 years ago I was willing to battle puke-and-die-level stage fright to sit in a nursing home and sing my first live performance with a guitar. My whole life, I had allowed myself to be held back by comparison and self-doubt, the girl always part of the music scene, but in the shadows as “friends with the band.” I worked so very hard to work through that so I could make and share music.

“Smile. He’s not flirting with you, he’s just being nice. Don’t be a bitch. Wear more makeup when you perform. Why are you so dressed up? Show a little skin. You can’t wear that, you look like a whore. Have you put on weight? Oh, look, another “Hey, beautiful” Facebook message — you have to answer, he could be a fan of your music — you have to be friendly to your fans, right? Or maybe he’s got a great opportunity for you! That guy that came to 3 shows in a row and said how much he loved your music? He disappeared after he realized you weren’t going to sleep with him.”

“I don’t want to do this.”

“I don’t want to do this.

“I don’t want to do this…”

I made it to the gig. I smiled and performed. It ended up a nice gig, with a small but appreciative crowd. Maybe it was worth it. Maybe it’s not so bad.

“You’ll disappoint a lot of people if you stop performing. Ah, you don’t mean it — you love this! Just bring your guitar — it’ll be fun! Don’t be a quitter. If you take a break, you’ll be forgotten. You worked too hard to get to where you are. If you stop, you’ll have come full-circle — defeated by self-doubt. If you don’t play a gig for 6 months, are you still a performer? If you write a song a year, are you a songwriter? You’re selfish — you should spend this time with your kids while they’re still young. Wait no — your kids are watching you — you’re modeling an independent woman following her dream!”

Folks have asked me recently when I’m performing next, how the album recording is going, would I like to perform at [insert venue here], come jam with us!

It’s all I can do not to figuratively stick my head in the sand to make it all go away.

I reflect back to my college days when I’d sneak into the darkened auditorium after hours, desperate for just a few minutes alone on stage with the concert grand. I was too shy for anyone to hear, back then. Growing up, my piano was my best friend, carrying me through loneliness, heartbreak, anger, and joy; it was a source of pride in my accomplishment and talent. Now I often go weeks without touching an instrument. I just. Don’t. Want. To.

But I want to love music again, I really do; it was, after all, my first love. I want to be content and fulfilled with playing my piano in my living room at 11pm — playing what I want to play, without any sense of obligation.

I’m aware now that turning my art into a business is stripping away my love for the art. It shines light on all of the self-doubt, comparison, competition, guilt, and unhealthy thinking patterns I’ve worked so hard to destroy. I am not by any means minimizing all of the love and support of those who appreciate and have been touched and inspired by what I do — trust that I see and hear and love you!

Maybe there’s balance in there somewhere — a place where I can share my music without feeling the pressure to keep up with the Joneses. I’m trying to find that place.

For now, I will be brave enough to put aside a large part of my identity for the sake of self-preservation, and learn to understand that putting it aside does not mean it’s gone forever. I can grieve its loss and revel in the relief. I can miss it until I miss it enough to invite it back in.

And here’s a few more things I’ve learned. Maybe they’ll validate something in you, too, dear artist, woman, Mother, human:

Taking a break isn’t failure. Changing your mind isn’t quitting. Taking care of yourself isn’t selfish. Setting boundaries doesn’t make you a bitch. You don’t have to monetize your art in order to share it. And you don’t owe anyone anything.