You’re Not Behind — You’re Becoming: A Love Letter to the Slow-Burning Musician

There’s something quiet and powerful about the way music calls to us.

It’s not a shout, not a command — but a pull. Often subtle. Sometimes aching. You don’t always know why it’s there. You just know you can’t ignore it. And if you’re someone who feels that pull deeply but often finds yourself overwhelmed, tired, or unsure how to keep showing up for your creativity in the middle of real life — this is for you.

This is for the musician who can’t always sit down to write songs after a long day of work, or who dreams of recording an album but is still learning how to regulate their nervous system. It’s for the artist whose energy comes in waves, whose ambition is strong but whose capacity is tender. It’s for the ones who carry a creative fire but don’t always know how to tend to it.

Maybe that’s you.

And if it is, let’s start here:

You’re not behind. You’re just becoming.

If there’s one truth I come back to over and over again, it’s this: creative growth does not follow the same rules as productivity culture. Your art is not a linear climb. It’s more like a spiral, or a tide. Sometimes it flows outward, sometimes it pulls inward. Both are necessary.

And the moments when everything feels like it’s standing still — when you’re depleted, disconnected, overwhelmed by life’s basic logistics — those are not the end of your creative story. They’re a part of it.

Your slow season is not a failure. It’s fertile ground.

I know this because I’ve lived it too. Just recently, after four steady months of keeping all the plates spinning — creative work, spiritual work, travel, administrative jobs, relationships, and care tasks — I hit a wall. My body said no. My mind got foggy. I couldn’t manage even small tasks without overwhelm flooding in. I started crying in the middle of packing a van. And everything inside me screamed, “It’s all too much.”

But here’s the thing I realized (after some tears, some music, and some grace):
The creative path isn’t about how much you can push through — it’s about learning how to stay with yourself when you can’t.

That’s a different kind of strength.

Your creative life doesn't have to run on urgency. It can grow from devotion, not pressure.

Your music is not a task — it’s a relationship.

It doesn’t disappear just because you're too tired to sing, or because you haven’t opened your instrument case in a week. It lives in the background of your being. Quiet, waiting, patient.

Even if all you can do today is place your fingers gently on a few keys, or whisper a melody under your breath while doing the dishes — you’re still in that relationship.

Sometimes music will ask more from you. Sometimes, it will ask only that you rest nearby. Either way, you’re not disconnected from it. You're in rhythm with it — even when that rhythm is slow, quiet, or full of pauses.

You’re not behind. You’re on a sacred, spiraling path — one that doesn’t rush your becoming.

Your creative energy is not a machine — it’s a living thing.

And like any living thing, it needs nourishment. It needs cycles. It needs protection. It needs permission to not perform.

If you’re anything like me, you may have internalized the belief that thriving means always being on, always being productive, always achieving. But musicianship — true artistry — doesn’t thrive in constant output. It thrives in depth. In rest. In observation. In listening. In trust.

You don’t need to earn your place as an artist by running yourself into the ground. You don’t need to constantly prove your devotion to your path by how much you’re producing.

Your softness is part of your skillset. Your sensitivity is part of your intelligence.

You are building a life that can sustain your art — not sprinting to a finish line.

There are days when I dream of putting out an album. Of making music the center of my professional life. Of sitting in a studio space that’s fully mine, surrounded by the sounds I’ve spent years learning how to shape. And then there are days — like this week — where I’m just trying to answer emails, keep my finances from spiraling, and rest without guilt.

I have to remind myself that this, too, is part of the journey.
That learning to take care of my nervous system, my time, and my basic needs — this is the groundwork. This is the long game.

And maybe you need that reminder too.

If your creative path is unfolding slowly, it’s not because you’re lazy or unfocused — it’s because you’re a whole human being. And your art will thank you for learning how to care for that wholeness.

Rest isn’t a distraction from your artistry. It’s part of the composition.

Let this be a season of gentle becoming.

If all you can do today is play one chord, write one lyric, listen to a tutorial, or simply breathe and remember why you love music — that’s enough.

Let yourself move 5% slower. Speak 5% more kindly. Let rest be part of your process, not a break from it.

You’re not falling behind. You’re building something true. And it takes time. It takes space. It takes you.

Keep listening. Keep tending. Keep going.

Some seeds take longer to root, but that doesn’t make them any less powerful. You are still blooming.

If this spoke to something in you …

I’d love to hear from you. Leave a comment, share your story, or just let me know what part of this resonated. We're all walking this creative path in our own rhythms — and you never know who needs to hear that their slowness is sacred too.

If you like also check out my free guide, The Creative Musician’s Guide to Embracing Imperfection, for support on overcoming self-doubt and enjoying the process. It’s there to help you through the days when you feel like you’re “not enough” as a musician or artist.