On Paper I Was Successful

But behind closed doors, I was struggling.

By 2017, I’d landed prestigious jobs with not one, but two professional orchestras: the Houston Ballet and the Houston Grand Opera. I had a teaching position at a university. But I had a secret that gnawed at my insides.

I struggled to pay my bills.

Every time I checked my bank account, overdraft fees sucked money from my already low balance. Desperate to stop the bank from taking what little I had, I transferred to an online bank with no fees. I scanned my balance, mentally listing what I needed to give up this month to make sure I could cover rent. No drinks with friends after concerts. No dinners out with my partner. No spontaneous purchases. 

Because I wasn’t just paying my own bills. I had helped my disabled mother with bills for a while, and she had just been diagnosed with cancer.

It took more hours and math than I’d like to admit, but I figured out how to squeeze some extra cash out of my tight budget. It wouldn’t cover all my mother’s medical bills, but it was all I could do.

A week after my mother’s cancer diagnosis, Hurricane Harvey hit.

Amidst the destruction, lost lives, and lost homes, the theaters where I performed flooded. Musicians’ contracts were abruptly canceled. With no warning, I was out of work for several months.

The news hit me like a punch to the gut. 

I lost $10,000 of income.

$10,000 I knew I wouldn’t be able to replace, especially with no notice. $10,000 I needed to pay my rent. $10,000 I needed for my mother’s cancer treatments. 

My mom had supported my musical upbringing, even when the money was tight. She’d sat in the audience cheering me on more times than either of us could count. She’d sacrificed so much to help me succeed in life. 

And I had succeeded. I’d gone to respected universities. I'd spent countless hours practicing for auditions and won coveted positions. I'd done everything my teachers had told me would make me successful. But when the woman who raised me needed me most, nothing hurt more than knowing I didn't have the means to help her. 

I’d given my all to my career. But my career wasn’t giving me enough back.

I wish I could say not being able to pay for my mother’s treatment was what finally convinced me I needed to break out of the feast or famine lifestyle I’d been trapped in all my adult life. In reality, it took five more years and a global pandemic for me to find my way to not just financial stability, but to a thriving bank account. Musicians are technicians, trained to fix problems when they happen. It took many years to see my career not as a technician, but as a CEO: someone who creates a strategy rather than reacting to life as it happens.

As afraid as I used to be about sharing my financial struggles, I now know I'm not alone. My story is not just my own. My story is the story of thousands of musicians who give everything to their craft, only to be trapped living paycheck to paycheck. 

I started Aspire because my story might be your story, too.

So many of us have unconsciously accepted the role of the starving artist—the musician who plays his instrument for love, but puts up with low wages and limited earning potential. What we were taught in music school isn’t true: practicing for hours and hours and mastering your craft isn’t enough to have a fulfilling career. It’s time musicians start speaking openly about our financial and professional goals, and it’s time we acquire the tools to achieve them.

Six years after Hurricane Harvey, I couldn’t be happier with my career. I’m doing what I love—helping colleagues and friends build careers around their identities and their strengths. In my next post, I’ll share the simple mindset shift that got me here.