Some People Say They’re Musicians. I Had to Bleed for It.
Some people say they’re musicians.
They picked up a guitar last summer. Took a few lessons. Learned a few chords. Posted a video of themselves strumming in good lighting. Called it passion.
Cool.
But for me? Music wasn’t a cute phase. It wasn’t a background prop for my social feed. It wasn’t something I did after my real job.
Music was the only thing that kept me breathing.
When everything else felt like hell, I had six strings and a busted amp that gave me more therapy than any human ever did.
I wasn’t told I had talent. I wasn’t cheered on. I was told to be quiet. Told I wasn’t good. Told to do something else. Told my dreams were selfish. Told to grow up.
But I kept playing. In garages, alleyways, halfway houses, churches, street corners.
I kept playing when I couldn’t afford new strings. I kept playing when nobody listened. I kept playing when my own blood didn’t believe in me.
So yeah—when someone says they’re a musician, and I see no scars, no sweat, no obsession, no heartbreak in the music… it hits me.
Not because I think I’m better. But because I had to bleed for this. I had to survive for this. I am this.
This isn’t ego. This is identity.
Some people say they’re musicians.
I had to be one. Or I wouldn't have made it out alive.