Grieving the Musician I Thought I'd Be

By Matthew Wilson

At one point, I imagined the musician I'd eventually become. Around 2015, I began exploring what that might look like. Back then, it was a Korg Kaossilator, a Zoom recorder, and 8-bar loops. Nothing fancy, nothing difficult.

I thought my routines would stick, that repetition would create confidence, and that collaborating would be anything but mentally exhausting.

I expected familiarity. I expected things to become instinct. I expected songs, workflows, and ideas to stay with me instead of slipping away.

Instead, I've found it difficult to retain terminology and maintain a working memory for the things I love. I listen to and make music, talk on my ham radio, and enjoy the technical side of both hobbies.

What I wanted out of all of it was consistency.

I was often learning and relearning, relying on my notes, forgetting about workflows, and having a hard time recalling things under pressure, knowing all the while that comparison is the thief of joy.

Sitting down to relearn something I knew before has got to be the biggest blow to my identity as a musician. It isn't that I can't learn. I usually can. Learning something once didn't mean it would become a dependable part of me. Eventually, I stopped asking, "Why can't I remember this?" and started asking, "How can I work with the mind I have today?"

For me, that's where grief came in. But I don't think I'm alone. Many people living with invisible or chronic illnesses eventually grieve the life they thought they were moving toward.

Schizoaffective disorder is an illness that includes features of both schizophrenia and bipolar disorder. The illness affects cognition and requires medication. The medication comes with trade-offs. Without blame, both the illness and its treatment have shaped my life.

Some people think that more effort can fix the problem. But I learned that trying harder only frustrated me more. I eventually realized effort wasn't the missing ingredient.

I finally found my own musical voice: spoken word set against ambient soundscapes. I began writing more reflectively and exploring philosophical ideas through music. I stopped trying to make music the way I thought musicians were supposed to and instead embraced the way I actually could.

I learned not to resign myself to my limitations, but to work within them. I took more time, wrote notes, simplified my workflows, and embraced slower progress. I gave myself permission to work differently.

What is success? For me, success is communication, healing, connection, reflection, and honesty.

Along the way, I created Songwriting Monthly. It became part of my healing. Building Songwriting Monthly taught me that music could also be about listening, encouraging, and creating a place where people feel heard.

Instead of becoming the fastest, most technically gifted, or best collaborator, I became more reflective, patient, philosophical, compassionate, and persistent.

Making music, for me, is a must. And while I still wish some things were different, I still grieve. I still struggle. I’m also proud that I kept on creating. Maybe that was enough all along.