When frustration starts to creep into my music, I’ve learned that the best response is to embrace a break. But getting to that point took me years.

For a long time, my identity was so wrapped up in being a musician that stepping away felt like abandoning myself—and everything I had worked for.

Eventually, I did it anyway. And slowly, I began to realize a crucial truth: music was never my identity. At best, it was a title. My true identity is so much more; it is the very vehicle for my music. And even setting myself aside, music itself can play many different roles in a life.

During that break, I turned from creating to listening. I had to search for inspiration and creative juices elsewhere: in people, in that very frustration, in drawings, and in mundane jobs. Some of it was painful, and some of it was surprisingly nice.

Then, something shifted. As soon as I stopped worrying about why I didn’t feel like making music, the desire to create began to return. And when it did, I found I had so much to say that it started pouring out in volumes.

Maybe no one else will ever fully understand my music, and it’s tempting to think that might render it worthless. But its value was never in outside approval. My music is meaningful to me. I do it because I want to, not because I have to.

Now that I know I am not just “a musician”—I am me—it truly doesn’t matter what others think of my output. This is my party, and I can cry if I want to.