Transcription
Okay. So, I used to think I had it all figured out. Not life, obviously. That's still kind of a show. But I thought I knew my purpose. I wasn't one of those people drifting around my 20s asking, "What the hell am I supposed to do with my life?" No, I was certain of my grand purpose on this earth by the ripe old age of 17. And for me, that was becoming a professional musician. That was the plan for my life as a grown-up.
So, from the time I was a teenager in the late 80s and later into the '90s, music wasn't just something I loved. It was the reason I existed. It was the thing that was going to save me from a boring life of mediocrity. Uh, it was the thing that was going to prove that I wasn't just another nobody. And for a while, that certainly kept me alive and also relatively insane, as you will see.
So I believed I found my calling or my destiny, I suppose. Basically, the cosmic reason why my molecules got assembled into this particular arrangement of flesh and neurosis. I thought if I poured every drop of my blood and sweat into music, I'd finally arrive. People would know my name. I'd have purpose tattooed across my existence in neon lights. And anyone who ever doubted me would have to eat their words and maybe buy a ticket to my sold-out show.
And let's be real, it wasn't just about art. It was about ego. I mean, I was swimming in that. It was about proving that forging my own path hadn't been a colossal mistake because I'd chosen the life that they warned you about. You know, the unstable life of true independence, the good luck paying rent life. Um, the life where you're eating ramen noodles and driving cars held together with duct tape and, you know, blind hope. And for a long time, I wore that chaos like a badge of honor. I thought that the suffering was somehow, um, noble, and I thought it meant that I was serious, that I was sacrificing for my, uh, you know, higher purpose. And to be fair, there were much more, let's say, idealistic times, the likes of which we don't see anymore.
But here's the thing: purpose sounds beautiful until it becomes a trap. And eventually, inevitably, mine did. Because, you know, no matter how driven you are and no matter how certain you feel, you can't outrun this little voice in the back of your head that whispers, "Is this it?" or the fear that maybe you built your whole identity on something that doesn't even exist. And for me, that voice got louder every year, though it took many years for it to become excruciatingly loud. Because my purpose, you know, this thing that was supposed to save my ass in this one precious, crazy life, was actually quietly killing me instead.
I guess what I'm saying is this. I did have a purpose, and I was certain of it. Nonetheless, I was completely, neurotically wrong. Now, don't worry. It gets a little funnier from here.
Okay. So, let's talk about what happens when you're, um, absolutely convinced of what your purpose is in life. Well, sometimes you become a maniac. And I was so certain that my, that music, you know, was my path, that I basically volunteered to live like some kind of depraved monk. You know, a monk who was broke, delusional, and, uh, often smelled like stale beer and cigarette smoke.
You know, we hear people say, "Follow your passion," right? But they don't tell you that it might lead you to play a gig for three drunk guys at 1:30 a.m. in a bar that doubles as a strip club on Tuesdays. And if you're lucky, you'll make $50. And they don't tell you that, you know, you'll be hauling amps up, uh, icy basement stairs, thinking, "This must be what success feels like." No, man. That's just back pain. And, uh, you know, the best part is you convince yourself that it's this word again: noble suffering. You, you romanticize your own misery because you have a cause.
So I used to sit in shitty apartments writing lyrics on scraps of paper, you know, certain that I was on the brink of something big. You know, "Any day now," I thought, "someone's going to discover my idiosyncratic niche of art, and the world will finally make sense." Uh, and meanwhile, the only thing getting discovered was that I was broke and depressed as hell.
And here's the real killer here. I tied my entire sense of worth to the idea that I was going to make it because I needed to prove that forging my own path wasn't just a, a cosmic screw-up. And I needed to prove that I wasn't just another loser who refused to get a real job. And the clock was always ticking. Actually, I became obsessed with time at that time of my life. Time became this enemy, uh, lurking over my shoulder. I'd think, "Okay, I'm 22 years old. I should have a record deal by now. All of my musical heroes already found success by this age." Uh, okay. "I'm 28. Other people are buying houses. I can barely buy a sandwich." "Now I'm 30. This is starting to look pathetic."
So, I was living in constant fear that time was running out and that if I didn't succeed by some magical deadline, my entire existence would be declared null and void. Like the universe was going to tap me on the shoulder and say, "Sorry, kid. You missed your window. Enjoy ridicule and obscurity." And I imagined some cosmic bouncer standing at the door of success with a clipboard, shaking his head at me because my name wasn't on that list.
But the truth is, the only person keeping that list was me. Because under all that drive and passion, there was fear. You know, fear that I was nothing without a successful career in music. Fear that I'd, uh, wasted my life. Um, fear that I was going to die one day and leave behind nothing. As if that even matters. And man, that is a hell of a thing to carry around every day.
So you keep chasing the dream harder. You make sacrifices, uh, sleep, money, relationships, um, any other opportunities that may arise to tempt you with some way out of all this. And you start thinking, "If I just push harder, the universe has to reward me, right? Right?" And I was thinking, you know, "Good karma will eventually arrive." As if that's how it works. Like there's some, um, celestial punch card system where you get a free purpose after your 10th meltdown. Well, news flash. The universe doesn't give a damn about your imaginary punch card. Trust me, I checked.
And even on the rare occasions when things did go well, it was never enough, of course, because, you know, there was a bottomless pit inside. So, I'd finish a gig, people would clap, uh, maybe even say nice things, and all I, all I could think was, "Yeah, but this venue and this crowd is too small. The sound system sucked. Uh, and the money was mostly terrible." And, and ad nauseam. I pretty much developed a convoluted relationship with the process. I became my own worst enemy, addicted to, um, self-sabotage because, deep down, I was wallowing in, uh, self-loathing. I had issues that were unresolved, shadow work that needed to be done, that wouldn't be done for many years later.
So throughout all that time, I just couldn't be content. And a lot of it was my own fault because I was terrified that if I stopped striving and grinding, I'd have to face the possibility that none of it mattered. And that's the real poison of tying your identity to your purpose. It becomes a trap you build for yourself. A prison, basically, made of ambition and fear. And all the while, life is happening right in front of you, and you're missing it because you're waiting for some cosmic stamp of approval.
Someone once said, "Life is what happens when you're busy making other plans." And this was my life. I was constantly thinking about the end goal, the future. I wasn't present. So eventually, I started to crack because you can only run from yourself for so long. And I realized something I'd been avoiding for years: that even if I achieved everything I wanted, it still wasn't going to save me from the human condition. And, you know, the one truth none of us can escape, which is our mortality. You know, we all know we're going to die, no matter what. And knowing that makes us desperate for meaning and purpose. It informs much of what we do or don't do throughout our lives, whether we are aware of this or not. You know, but, but the meaning might not be waiting out there in some grand purpose. It might really just be here, right now, as you're watching this, in these tiny moments that we keep ignoring, which is really where life happens.
And as terrifying as it was to admit, you know, letting go of my so-called purpose turned out to be the only thing that made me feel free. So here's what happened after I let go of the, uh, whole purpose fantasy. I didn't achieve any kind of enlightenment. And I didn't suddenly become calm or, um, you know, spiritually centered or start eating kale. I just stopped living like my entire life was, uh, a waiting room. And I eventually stopped treating every day like a stepping stone to some future where I'd finally be allowed to feel okay.
I started paying attention. Not in some, um, poetic, uh, slow-motion, "I now appreciate the little things" kind of way. Um, more like, "Oh, I've never actually tasted my coffee before," because I've been too busy calculating how much of a failure I am by age 34. You know, realizing how disconnected I was from reality, not in some spiritual sense, but, uh, literally from the present moment, from the people in my life, and even from my own breath.
Now, I'm not saying I became some enlightened monk. I still have low-key meltdowns about things entirely outside of my control. But I'm not chasing anything, and I'm not forcing anything anymore. I stopped needing everything I do to mean something. And paradoxically, that's when it started to mean something. So it turns out, once we stop trying to assign our lives some giant cosmic significance, you get access to, uh, a different kind of meaning. You know, not the billboard version, and not the kind that gets an applause or a bunch of likes or a book deal, etc. But the quiet kind, the kind you feel when you're just sitting on the floor and drinking tea and not, you know, hating yourself. Um, the kind that shows up when you're talking to a friend and you actually hear what they're saying because, for once, you're not mentally rehearsing your next delusional achievement or just waiting for your turn to talk. And I would say the kind that sneaks in when you stop trying to conquer the world and instead, you just exist in it with no expectations or aspirations of any kind.
All right. So here's something nobody really tells you. You don't need a purpose to be present. And being present might just be the closest thing to peace that we really get in this life. But look, I, I, I get it. We're human, and we're time-bound as self-aware creatures trying to survive with the knowledge that we're going to die, which isn't, which, which is in itself, in my opinion, a form of sanity, a form of controlled insanity that we just bear throughout our lives and find multitudes of ways, ways to cover up, somehow distract ourselves from this. There's a great deal of distraction in our lives.
So the thing is, you know, in light of this, it's natural that we want a story, and we want the plot to make sense. You know, we want to look back on it all and go, "Oh, that's why everything sucked for a couple of decades. It was actually leading somewhere." But maybe it wasn't. Maybe some things just sucked for no reason whatsoever. Now, I'm a firm believer that things don't always happen for a reason. And I know that this is a, uh, controversial subject. I probably could do a whole video on, uh, the topic of, "Do things happen for a reason or not?" But, you know, things may never happen for a reason. That is a possibility. And personally, I think that's okay. I'm fine with that. I mean, do we really need a cosmic justification for everything?
So maybe the point of life is just to live it. As, um, Alan Watts once said, "The meaning of life is just to be alive. It is so plain and so obvious and so simple. And yet everybody rushes around in a great panic as if it were necessary to achieve something beyond themselves." And maybe the miracle isn't some grand purpose or any purpose for that matter. You know, maybe the miracle is just not being completely insane while still being alive and occasionally laughing and, you know, maybe making someone else feel a little less alone. I mean, that's not a TED talk, but it's also not a delusion. And after chasing something bigger for, um, a great deal of my life, I'll take honest over impressive any day.
Okay. So, if you're still watching, here's something to consider. If you're stuck in that loop, the "What's my purpose?" loop, here's my, um, unsolicited advice. Number one, maybe you don't have one. You just don't have a purpose. Not in the Hallmark movie sense, and that's fine. Most animals don't, and they seem fine. All right.
Number two, focus on presence. Not in a yoga influencer kind of way. I mean, try noticing what the hell you're doing while you're doing it instead of thinking ahead constantly. You'd be amazed how rare that is, actually. Okay.
Um, number three, find small things that feel authentic. A walk, a song, a conversation where neither of you are actually performing something.
Number four, stop measuring your life by someone else's scoreboard. Stop comparison. You know, you've heard this, the, the quote, "Comparison is the thief of joy." Uh, I do believe that to be true. You know, most people are faking it anyway. All right.
Number five. Forgive your younger self. They were doing their best with bad intel. Look, you know, life is inexplicable and weird. You get born, you flail around for several decades, and then you die. Some people get a highlight reel. Most don't. But all of us, all any of us really have is now. Not five minutes from now, not three days from now, not 10 years from now. None of those are guaranteed. You know, I heard someone once say, "Being anywhere other than in this present moment is a form of slavery." That stuck with me. So, try not to miss it while you're, uh, shackled to the hope that it should mean something.
All right, that's all I got today. Go make some toast or stare at a wall for a while. That's what I'm doing after this. Thanks for watching.