We’re often told the virtue of being “part of something greater than ourselves.” It sounds noble—spiritual even. Whether it’s a religion, a political movement, a company mission, or a grand cause, we’re taught to see transcendence in surrender. To dissolve the self into something bigger.

But stop for a second and ask yourself:

Why does something need to be greater than me in order to matter?

And who decided that it was greater? Who handed down the value judgment that I am somehow less—less important, less meaningful, less worthy—than the thing I’m being asked to serve?

There’s an arrogance buried in that message. The unspoken assumption that you, as an individual, aren’t enough unless you become a cog in someone else’s vision. That your life only has meaning in service to a system, a deity, a vision, a collective goal.

That’s not humility. That’s control.

Yes, some things are worth investing in. Yes, collective effort can achieve what no one person can. But that doesn’t make the cause greater than you. It just makes it something you value. That’s not a hierarchy—it’s a relationship.

I’m not part of something greater than myself.

I’m part of something because I choose it.

I serve things I value.

I uphold principles because they align with who I am—not because they outrank me.

That might sound like nuance, but it’s not. It’s a fundamental difference in how you see yourself in the world.

You are not a servant.

You are not an underling.

You are not a tool for someone else’s cause to wield.

You are the origin of your own values.

And whatever you fight for—whatever you build—should serve you back.

Not in ego, but in truth.

There’s a strange kind of loop that keeps people stuck in miserable jobs, toxic relationships, and even addictions. It’s not just pain. It’s not just fear. It’s the cycle of pain and relief.

The realization hit me yesterday — not like a lightning bolt from the sky, but like something I’ve always known finally clicking into place. I was at work, dreading the task in front of me. Nothing tragic, just the usual: too much to do, not enough care, and the creeping sense that I was wasting my life on something completely misaligned with who I am.

For a moment, I seriously thought: If I just had a mild heart attack, I wouldn’t have to work for a while. That’s not sane. That’s not rational. But it’s the kind of thought you have when your daily existence feels more like being extracted than expressed. You don’t want to die — you just want a break so badly you start fantasizing about medical emergencies.

Later, I was with my girlfriend, laughing, relaxing, present again. And I felt better — of course I did. The pressure was off. The pain was gone. But here’s the thing:

The urgency to change disappears with the pain.

When I’m at work, I feel it in my bones: I have to get out. I need to look for another job, build my business faster, do anything to escape. But when I get home? The motivation fades. Not because the truth changed — but because I’m no longer in immediate pain. The urgency is gone. The cycle resets.

This isn’t unique to me. I’ve seen it in addiction recovery, too. When the pain gets great enough, people say, “I can’t live like this anymore.” But if they get just a little relief — a hit, a drink, a distraction — they stay. Until it gets worse. Then they try again. Repeat.

Pain motivates change — but only when it lasts long enough to provoke action. And relief, even temporary, short-circuits that process. That’s why people stay stuck. They only feel desperate when they’re in the fire, but they only have the time and tools to change once they’re out of it — when the fire is behind them, and they start convincing themselves it wasn’t so bad.

There’s a quote I’ve heard that says:

“Character is the ability to follow through on a decision long after the emotion that made you commit to it has faded.”

I don’t know if that’s character, exactly — maybe it’s clarity. Maybe it’s just wisdom: the wisdom to take action while you still can, even if the pressure’s eased. The strength to act not when you feel desperate, but when you’re safe and comfortable — because you remember what the pain felt like. You know it’s coming again.

And maybe that’s what it comes down to: learning to act in the space between pain and relief. That fragile, fleeting window where your mind is clear and your time is yours — if only you can choose to do the hard thing before the moment passes.

Because once the relief fades, the pain comes back.

And so many of us are stuck, not because we don’t know what to do — but because we don’t do it when we finally could.

Maybe you’re over 40. Maybe you’re over 50. Honestly, it doesn’t matter.

You did everything you were supposed to do—or close enough. You followed the script: school, job, maybe a career. Maybe you bought a house. Got married. Had kids. Paid your bills. Paid your taxes. Mowed your lawn. Hung out with your friends when you had time.

You followed the recipe. The plan. The typical life trajectory.

Maybe you hit some bumps, maybe not. But none of that is really the point. Because deep down—somewhere quiet, when you’re driving in silence or staring at your phone on a weekend—you feel it. That strange ache. That whisper that says: Something isn’t right.

You ask yourself: Is this it? Is this really all there is?

And maybe—if you’re brave—you begin to look closer. You begin to wonder if you’re truly happy, or just busy. You ask: Why am I doing all of this? Did I ever really choose this life, or did I just follow someone else’s blueprint?

And if not this… then what?

Maybe your mind drifts back to your childhood self. The version of you before you were told to grow up, sit still, fall in line. The one with dreams. Wild ones. The kind that felt like they meant something.

And now? You’re not even sure you remember what they were.

Maybe you were told those dreams were silly. That you had to be practical. That life doesn’t work that way. Maybe you got laughed at. Maybe your teachers told you to behave. Your parents told you to be realistic.

So, slowly, you learned to shut up. First your mouth. Then your mind. You learned to stop acting like yourself, and eventually… to stop thinking like yourself.

You learned to be what everyone else wanted you to be.

But deep down, it never fit. It still doesn’t. You feel it like a tight suit, or the wrong-sized shoes. You feel trapped. Sometimes, if you’re honest, it even feels like terror. Like you’re going to live this way until you die.

But here’s the truth—you don’t have to.

That feeling? That flicker of awareness? That’s the beginning. That’s you waking up.

You’re not crazy. You’re not broken. You’re seeing the Matrix for what it is—not a sci-fi fantasy, but a social program. A script. A machine that wants you to keep running in place. To keep producing, obeying, staying quiet.

You’ve been trained to serve a system that doesn’t serve you.

But now… you see it.

And here’s the good news: you’re not stuck. You can change. You can reclaim yourself. You can pivot, even now. Especially now. You don’t need permission. You never did. You were just trained to think you did.

And yeah—it’s tempting to go back to sleep. To forget. To pretend you didn’t have this realization.

But don’t.

Stay awake. You owe that much to the real you—the one still inside, still waiting. It’s not going to be easy. You’ll stumble. You’ll fail. You’ll question everything. But at least this time, it will be your path, not someone else’s.

You don’t have to walk the same tired circles worn down by the millions before you.

You can carve a new trail. Even if it’s hard. Even if you’re scared. Especially if you’re scared.

And you’re not alone. If you look carefully, you’ll start to see others who’ve woken up, too. We recognize each other. And when we do, we know—we’re not going back to sleep.

So if you’re ready… keep watching.

In a world where attention is short and pressure is constant, there’s a particular kind of message that cuts through the noise. It doesn’t whisper; it shouts. Be tough. Stop making excuses. Grind harder. Hustle more. Outwork the other guy. Suck it up. Get it done.

You hear it in podcasts, motivational videos, gym culture, entrepreneur circles, YouTube rants, and endless posts with bold fonts over blurry sunsets. It’s everywhere. And for a while, it can even feel empowering. But here’s the problem—it’s not strength. Not really.

What we’re seeing is a convergence of three overlapping cultural mindsets: bro culture, hustle culture, and what you might call the “no excuses” ethos. They’re not exactly the same, but they drink from the same well. Bro culture values dominance, image, and emotional suppression. Hustle culture worships productivity, output, and relentless work. And the “stop making excuses” mindset elevates shame and grit into a moral code, where any acknowledgment of pain or limitation is seen as weakness.

Together, they form a kind of modern gospel: If you’re not thriving, it’s because you’re not trying hard enough.

These ideas aren’t just wrong—they’re dangerous. They confuse posturing for power. They teach people to treat themselves like machines, as if endurance alone were the measure of worth. They equate human complexity with failure. And they ignore the real reasons why people fall short—burnout, trauma, systemic barriers, or simply the reality that life isn’t always a mountain you can muscle your way over.

We’ve created a culture where rest is suspect, emotion is shameful, and failure is a personal flaw instead of part of the process.

But real strength doesn’t look like that.

Real strength is nuanced. It knows when to push—and when to pause. It listens to fear instead of silencing it. It faces discomfort honestly instead of trying to beat it into submission. Real strength doesn’t perform toughness; it practices resilience.

You don’t need to scream at yourself in the mirror or run on three hours of sleep or pretend you’re not hurting just to prove something to people who probably aren’t even watching.

The world doesn’t need more “grinders.” It needs more people who know what actually matters—and are willing to live by it.

So if you’re tired of the noise, good. That might just mean you’re ready to hear yourself again.

People who survive disasters—real disasters, like fires, plane crashes, or active shooters—tend to have one key trait in common: they act. While others freeze, delay, or pretend nothing’s happening, survivors make a decision. They get out. They move. They face obstacles head-on. They do whatever it takes to escape the danger zone, and they do it quickly.

This has been well-documented by researchers who study human behavior in crises. The majority of people, they’ve found, tend to deny that anything is even happening. The alarm goes off, and they keep typing. The smoke thickens, and they finish their meal. There’s a loud bang nearby, and they tell themselves it was probably just fireworks. They cling to normality because it’s familiar and safe—until it’s not.

And when I learned about this pattern, I realized something that shook me: this isn’t limited to disasters. It’s how a lot of people live.

We find ourselves in situations that are quietly, persistently harmful. Maybe it’s not a fire or a flood, but it’s a job that’s killing our spirit, or a relationship that keeps us small, or a habit that’s destroying our health. There’s smoke, but we ignore it. There’s discomfort, but we rationalize it. There’s a gnawing sense that something is wrong, but we stay put—telling ourselves it’s not that bad.

We stay in the same relationship because we’re afraid to be alone. We stay in the same band or game group because the hassle of change feels worse than the mediocrity we’ve gotten used to. We numb ourselves with booze or distractions and call it “just blowing off steam.” We freeze. We deny. We wait. And slowly, like victims of smoke inhalation, we go under.

But survival—true survival—requires action.

For me, this meant making hard choices. I had to stop pretending that everything was okay. I had to stop telling myself I was powerless. I had to act—because the alternative was to keep dying, slowly. I chose to get clean. I chose to leave relationships that weren’t good for me. And more importantly, I chose to seek out relationships that were. Because happiness isn’t just the absence of pain—it’s the presence of something meaningful.

And now, I realize I need to keep making those choices. In new areas of life. Again and again.

Because life doesn’t always present itself as a five-alarm fire. Sometimes the danger is subtle. It creeps in over years. But if we’re not careful, if we keep sitting there convincing ourselves it’s fine, we become victims of a disaster we never saw coming.

So here’s the truth: no one is coming to rescue us. There’s no fireman on the way to pull us out of a burning job or a toxic friendship. It’s on us. We have to become our own rescuers. We have to act.

And the time to act is now.

Every morning, without fail, I wake up in pain. Before I even have a chance to organize my thoughts or orient myself to the day, discomfort rolls in like an early fog—uninvited, unwelcome, but expected. It’s a familiar ritual, this ache that greets consciousness. Some of it is the ordinary resistance of a body roused from sleep. I’ve never been a morning person, and I’ve long accepted that waking up can feel like a minor betrayal by the body.

But this goes deeper. There is a more profound, more insidious discomfort beneath the surface. My guts often hurt. If I slow down enough to scan each part of my body, I can find a twinge or an ache in almost every region. At one time, I might have chalked this up entirely to age, but now I recognize something more sobering: much of this is self-inflicted. Not in the sense of intentional harm, but in the slow, daily drift of choices left unexamined. The food I eat—or don’t. The movement I neglect. The hours I spend still when my body aches to move. It doesn’t have to be this way.

And then comes the second pain. This one is not physical. It is emotional, existential—the dull thud of dread when I remember it’s a workday. I have a job, and it pays some bills, but it exacts a toll far higher than it should. It steals the one currency that matters most: time. That most fragile, non-renewable resource, already more behind me than ahead. The work I do does not speak to who I am or what I value. It feels like time bartered away for obligations that multiply without end.

Again, if I really examine it, I have to admit that some of this too is self-inflicted. I could have taken action sooner, could have made different choices, could have risked more for something that mattered. But recrimination has no productive value here. There’s no going back to revise the decisions of yesterday. There is only the painful recognition that I must choose differently today.

Then, as if to crown the experience, there is the third pain. It’s the quiet panic of financial uncertainty. This morning I looked at my bills and realized I may not be able to pay all of them this month. And this isn’t the first time. Even though I’m earning more right now—thanks to the seasonal uptick in music gigs—unexpected expenses have outpaced the temporary gains. There is a gnawing anxiety in this kind of uncertainty. It whispers worst-case scenarios into your ear before you’ve even had coffee.

Here again, I encounter the same refrain: some of this, too, is within my control. I am not powerless. But the patterns are entrenched, and I’ve never quite managed to make the leap into a financial reality that offers both security and integrity.

So there I am, nearly every day, greeted by three categories of pain. Physical, emotional, financial. None of them abstract. All of them deeply personal. All of them—in some way—connected to choices I can make, if not today, then soon.

These aren’t the kinds of priorities that can be shuffled into a neat list. These are life-level pains. And while I will never sacrifice my recovery, my relationships, or the meaning that makes life worth living, I have to admit that these three areas demand attention. They are not optional. They do not wait politely in the wings.

Recovery has taught me this: change is slow. Real change, the kind that builds a new life, is glacial in its movement but monumental in its outcome. The initial act—abstaining from substances—was immediate. It mattered enormously. But the subtler shifts in how I live, think, eat, move, earn, and dream? Those take time.

I’ve seen progress in areas like health before. I know from experience that changes in diet and movement, though slow, create tangible results. I can return to that path. I can walk it again.

But the professional transformation—the creation of a livelihood that doesn’t extract my soul—that remains uncharted territory. I have no template for that. And so it scares me. Not in the vague way of imagined monsters, but in the real, sobering way that unfamiliar freedom often does.

Yet even this fear is a kind of signal. Because what terrifies me more is the idea of doing nothing. Of waking up five years from now with the same pain, the same dread, the same bills, and realizing I let the clock run out on choices I could have made.

These three discomforts—body, soul, and wallet—are not enemies. They are messengers. And the message is clear: You are not stuck. You are not powerless. You are not done.

The pain is real. But so is the possibility.

I’ve always been more of a product-oriented person. I care about what gets built, finished, shipped, or accomplished. I want to see results—something tangible, something I can point to and say, that’s what I meant to do. And while I can sometimes get dogmatic about the process (who can’t?), it’s become clearer to me over time that focusing on the product—the goal—is far more important than obsessing over how you get there.

Of course, that idea can raise some red flags. “The ends justify the means” has been used to excuse some terrible things, and I’m not interested in becoming an apologist for ruthlessness. There’s a necessary ethical boundary here. But I’m not talking about trampling over people or principles to get your way. I’m talking about something more subtle, and in some ways more dangerous: the comfort and illusion of safety we get when we treat process as sacred.

“This is how we’ve always done it.” If I had to nominate a single phrase for the cause of more failures in institutions, businesses, and personal lives, that would be it. Clinging to a method because it’s familiar, even when the landscape has changed, is not stability—it’s stagnation.

In business, this trap is well documented. In The Innovator’s Dilemma, Clayton Christensen showed how even dominant companies get disrupted—not because they’re unintelligent, but because they become prisoners of their own processes. They double down on what used to work and fail to notice the world has moved on.

Agile development, Lean Startup methodology—these emerged as antidotes to that rigidity. “Working software over comprehensive documentation.” Translation: solve the real problem. Let process follow purpose, not the other way around.

In education, the pattern holds. Bureaucracies cling to standardized tests and curriculum checklists. They’re optimized for the system, not the student. And yet, the most effective teachers are often those who break the rules to actually reach someone. They improvise, adapt, and sometimes abandon the “correct” method to pursue the right outcome: actual learning.

In art and creativity, the phrase “trust the process” is common. Sometimes it’s wise advice—when you’re chasing discovery or spontaneity. But other times, especially when you’re trying to build something that people need or that needs to ship, trusting the process too much becomes a liability. It becomes an excuse.

And that brings me to recovery—where this really hits home for me.

I have to remind myself that the product in recovery isn’t the process itself. The product is a meaningful life. The product is remaining abstinent. The product is learning how to navigate life well enough that when the occasional thought to use crosses my mind, I can recognize it, breathe through it, and choose something better.

It’s easy—far too easy—to get religious about the method. If you’ve used a 12-step fellowship or another structured path to get clean, it can feel like this is the one true way. And to be honest, the process I was taught in recovery is the only one I really know how to pass on. But the truth is, while the specific steps may differ, the fundamentals tend to be the same across all recovery paths: honesty, connection, accountability, growth.

Different methods work for different people. And I have to stay vigilant not to confuse my method with the goal itself. If the method stops working—or if someone else finds healing another way—I need to stay focused on the outcome, not the ritual.

The same thing happens with health and weight loss. I’ve found what works for me, and when I follow it, I do better. But I can become rigid—dogmatic even. Not because I think others need to do it my way, but because I get attached to my own system. I stop listening to new input. I become resistant to change. And what am I really chasing? It’s not about strict adherence to a diet plan. I want to feel better. I want energy, health, confidence. I want to live longer, move easier, and suffer less. That is the product. The rest is just a delivery system.

Even work—career, business, making a living—gets muddied by this. We fixate on “how to do it” instead of why we’re doing it. But what I want isn’t a job or business for its own sake. I want time. Autonomy. Enough money to breathe, to share, to take care of the people I love. I want to do work that reflects who I really am—not something that drains the soul in exchange for survival. That’s the product.

Process matters, of course. But only in service of that outcome.

Even drugs, once upon a time, were a process. A twisted, destructive one—but they felt like a solution. The means to feeling better. Until they weren’t. They caused more damage than they solved, and that’s a stark, real-world case of the ends not justifying the means. But it also shows how badly we need to stay conscious of what we’re actually after. Because if you don’t define the product, you’ll cling to a process that betrays you.

When you strip everything else away, it’s this simple: I want a happy life. I want real relationships without constant tension. I want to be myself, without hiding. I want to feel good in my body and calm in my mind. I want enough—not excess, just enough. I want time, freedom, connection, a sense of belonging, and maybe even meaning. Call it self-actualization if you want. I just call it what matters.

And once you’re clear on that, the process is yours to shape. To change. To discard. Form follows function. Ritual must serve reality.

That’s why it’s not just an abstract debate—product vs. process. It’s not just a design philosophy or a business theory. It’s how you live. How you change. And how you stop mistaking the map for the destination.

So ask yourself: What do you actually want? What’s the product?

And is the process you’re clinging to still getting you there?

Every time you click on a YouTube video—or a video on any platform, for that matter—you make a decision almost instantly: continue watching, or move on. In a world where attention spans seem to be measured in milliseconds, this choice is made with astonishing speed. Whether you’re watching on your phone, tablet, or television, you probably don’t even realize how quickly your brain is sorting through cues and deciding, almost instinctively, “Yes, I’ll keep watching” or “No, next.”

If you’re a content creator, this phenomenon takes on a sharper edge. You know that viewer retention drops off drastically in the first 30 seconds. Most of your audience is gone before your video has even caught its breath. After that initial plunge, the descent is gentler—but steady. It’s the first 30 seconds that are the battlefield.

This essay isn’t written only for creators. It’s about that fascinating moment of decision that all of us experience, whether we realize it or not: what keeps us watching—or what makes us click away.

Some have blamed younger generations for an erosion of attention span, while others argue older generations simply don’t understand modern media. As a Gen Xer, I’d like to offer a bit of perspective. When we were growing up, we didn’t have dozens of options. We had maybe three or four TV channels. We would watch whatever was on, because there wasn’t much else.

Then came cable. And with it, the infamous Jerrold box—36 channels, lined up in three rows with a three position switch that made a satisfying clunk as we flipped through each one. As teenagers, we’d scroll through every single channel, declare that nothing was on, and go back to flipping again. It drove our parents crazy. The truth is, the instinct to rapidly sort and select our entertainment is not new. We’ve just streamlined it, digitized it, and accelerated the process to match the pace of our screens.

Back to YouTube. The prevailing wisdom from platform gurus is that a video must start with a “hook”—an enticing opening, a bold promise, a gripping question, something that drags the viewer in before they have time to leave. You also need the perfect thumbnail and title to get them to click in the first place. It’s all about packaging.

And yet… how many times have I clicked on a video with a perfect hook and a flashy intro—and left within seconds? Conversely, how many times have I stayed with a video that had no real hook at all? What kept me watching?

The answer, I believe, is layered. Certainly, the hook helps. So does polish. Some viewers are drawn to highly produced, glossy visuals and pristine sound. Others—myself included—can forgive casual presentation, as long as the content delivers. There’s a certain threshold, of course: if the video quality is too poor, I’m out, no matter how good the topic is. But flash and smash? Not required.

More important than the technical polish, in my experience, is the nature of the material and how it’s being explored. Am I being offered something deep, or just surface-level fluff? Maybe the hook made me curious, but once I realize the content is shallow or oversimplified, I lose interest. For others, that lighter touch may be exactly what they want—brief, digestible, non-taxing. Neither is wrong. It depends on what you’re looking for.

But for me, the single most powerful reason I keep watching a video is simple: I like the person.

Not just “they’re engaging” or “they’re energetic.” I mean: Do I like them? Do they seem like someone I’d actually enjoy having a conversation with? Are they genuine, or are they performing?

There’s an intangible authenticity that comes through when someone’s being themselves. Sometimes, it’s in the way they speak plainly. Sometimes, it’s in their quirks, their relaxed pauses, or even their intensity. I can think of one presenter whose videos I enjoy most when she lets her guard down and speaks from a more personal space. When she gets intense and fired up about a topic, it’s compelling—but when she softens and lets her personality shine through, it becomes even more human. I suspect both versions are genuine; I like them both.

On the flip side, there are creators who polish every word, posture every moment, and deliver a technically perfect video that somehow feels… hollow. Maybe it works for others. Not for me.

This preference goes beyond video. It’s the difference between a good teacher and a forgettable one. I’ve told my “chemistry teacher” story before. There were two teachers. Same subject. Same curriculum. But one made it fun, lively, human. The other? Monotone, disengaged, uninterested. My Advanced biology teacher in high school was brilliant, not just because he knew his subject—but because we liked him. So was my philosophy teacher. Even Ray, my eccentric tenth-grade English teacher, made the class enjoyable through sheer force of personality.

It makes all the difference.

YouTube—much more so than today’s short-form content—can feel more personal than traditional media. It’s a one-on-one relationship. You’re not just watching; you’re spending time with someone. And when you like that someone, you’re more receptive. You might even keep watching topics you didn’t think you cared about, simply because you enjoy their company.

Isaac Asimov was like that. His nonfiction essays were so engaging that I often found myself reading about topics I had little interest in—only to realize, partway through, that I was enjoying myself immensely. And learning, too.

That, perhaps, is the true magic.

The hook matters. The topic matters. But in the end, what keeps us watching—or reading—is the human connection. Do I like this person? Do they seem real? Am I enjoying being in their presence?

If the answer is yes, we stay. And sometimes, despite ourselves, we learn something.

Isn’t that what it’s all about?

As a bass player—or really any kind of musician who plays in bands—there’s going to come a time when someone calls you to play a sub gig. If you don’t know, a sub gig is when you step in for someone else in their band. Maybe their regular bassist can’t make it. Maybe they don’t have one right now. And sometimes, you’ll get called by someone just throwing together a pickup band for a show.

I do a lot of these gigs now. They can be fun. They can be profitable. But they come with their own set of problems and potential pitfalls. And to avoid as many of those as possible, there are a bunch of questions you should ask—either before you take the gig or while you’re ironing out the details. Sometimes, you’ll need to ask more than once. Musicians have a well-earned reputation for being a little flaky. Not all of them, of course. But enough of them to reinforce the stereotype. So don’t be surprised if you have to double back for clarity. Voice of experience here.

These questions tend to fall into a few broad categories.

The first one is the most obvious, at least in theory: How much does the gig pay?

I’m assuming you’re getting paid—if the band is getting paid, then so should you. But how much is very much up for grabs. There are times when I know I’m not making as much as the other members, and other times when I’m probably the highest-paid person on stage. It depends. I usually don’t ask how I’ll be paid on the first gig. I expect either cash or a quick Venmo that night. But there have been cases where payment was less than timely, and now I often insist on being paid the same day. That’s a case-by-case thing, but the key is to avoid surprises. You don’t want to show up expecting $100 and get handed $40. I try to get a guarantee, and anything above that is always welcome.

Next, the logistics. These are the practical details that often get overlooked but can really make or break your night.

How big is the stage? Do I need to bring the smallest rig I own? Is there even room for more than one guitar? I’ve played on stages where we were packed in like sardines, and I had to bring the most compact setup possible just to function.

Sometimes there’s a backline. Sometimes you’re running direct through the PA. I usually bring a rig anyway and leave it in the car, just in case. Don’t assume the person hiring you knows much about sound reinforcement or what your instrument setup requires. I ask whether there’s a mic stand I can clamp my iPad holder to for notes, but I often just bring one. Better safe than sorry.

What’s the load-in like? Where do I park? Is there parking on-site, or am I going to be hiking from some garage down the street? You don’t want to find this out when you pull up to the venue.

What time is downbeat? What time is the show over? When do you need to be there for soundcheck or setup? This is all basic stuff, but I’ve seen people show up late or underprepared simply because they didn’t ask.

Also, will there be a rehearsal? Are they insisting you practice with them? That can really affect the cost-benefit ratio, especially depending on where and when that practice is happening. Some sub gigs don’t require a rehearsal. Others do. Ask.

Can your significant other get in for free? Is there an opening band—or are you the opener? Is the gig outdoors? All those little details can prevent nasty surprises.

Then there’s the most important category: the music.

You absolutely have to show up prepared. The time to learn the songs is not at rehearsal and certainly not at the show. I always ask for a set list—in order—so I can prep my notes accordingly. When they give me the list, I ask for not just the song titles, but also the artists. And if there’s a particular version they want me to learn, I ask for that too—ideally with a Spotify or YouTube link.

But that’s not all. One of the biggest issues is key changes. I always ask whether any of the songs are in a different key than the recorded version. You don’t want to find out at the first note that they’ve moved the song up a minor third or dropped it a half-step.

Speaking of which, a lot of recordings were done with instruments tuned down a half-step. Some bands play those songs a half-step up in standard tuning, while others retune their instruments down to match the recording. So I always ask: are you in standard tuning or flat tuning? I’ve even had a guy tell me he plays a whole step down.

Sometimes, they mix it up—some songs in standard, some in flat tuning—and switch guitars between them. That’s one more reason to ask how big the stage is. If space allows, I often bring two instruments. If flat tuning is essential, I’ll consider breaking out a drop pedal, even though I don’t love how they sound. Might have to bite the bullet and do that again.

And here’s a big one: do they play the songs exactly like the recording? Or are they doing something different?

I’ll warn you: many bands say they play things just like the record. But in the middle of the show, you find out they skip the bridge, or add an extra chorus, or ditch a second verse, or slide into a medley through a custom chord progression they forgot to mention. Maybe there’s a signature lick they do, and suddenly you’re the only one not in on it. It helps to be able to roll with those punches—but better to know in advance if you can.

Which brings me to another key question: do they have any video or audio of recent performances?

This can be a lifesaver. It shows you how they actually play the songs. Most bands these days have something on YouTube or Facebook. Even if it’s not super recent, it can help. I’ve even asked for this before agreeing to a gig—because sometimes, a few minutes of watching them play can tell you if you want to do it at all. I usually say yes before checking, but I’ve definitely had moments during the show where I regretted it.

Live and learn.

One last tip: if you start asking technical questions—about the PA, keys, arrangements—you may get referred to another band member. That’s fine. Just make sure you get the info from whoever actually knows what’s going on. Don’t be afraid to say, “Hey, is there someone else in the band who might know the answer?”

Most of the time, people are happy to help. They want a good show too.

Hopefully, none of this sounds intimidating. Once you get used to it, these questions become second nature. And they can save you a lot of headaches. Every one of these came from experience—times I didn’t ask and got surprised. Now, I try to make sure that doesn’t happen again.

You won’t avoid every surprise. That’s just part of doing sub gigs. But the more you can stack the deck in your favor, the more you can focus on making the show great—and having a good time while getting paid.

And really, who doesn’t love that?

A little less than a year ago, I made a decision that I had resisted for over a decade. I revealed publicly, on YouTube, that I’m in long-term recovery from addiction. And I wanted to take a moment to explain why I chose to break my anonymity in so public a forum—and why it took me so long to do so.

When I got clean over twelve years ago, one of the first things I learned was that nobody is the face of recovery. Nobody speaks for Narcotics Anonymous, or AA, or any other program—unless maybe you’re a solo therapist running your own operation. The traditions of these fellowships emphasize humility and anonymity, and for good reason. Anonymity protects the program and protects the people in it.

And there’s another practical reason: when people hear “twelve years clean,” they don’t always hear the twelve—they just hear the word “addict.” You have to be careful about who you share your past with. I wasn’t looking for a parade. I didn’t need an attaboy or a pat on the back. I got plenty of encouragement within the rooms of recovery. I wasn’t chasing it elsewhere.

But the biggest reason I kept silent for so long had to do with what’s known as the Eleventh Tradition in 12-step recovery. It says: “Our public relations policy is based on attraction rather than promotion; we need always maintain personal anonymity at the level of press, radio, and films.” This was written in the 1930s, long before Facebook, Instagram, and YouTube ever existed. But the spirit is clear. Don’t use mass media to make yourself the poster child for recovery.

So yes, I know—I’m technically breaking that tradition by posting this. But I also want to talk about why I finally chose to speak up.

It comes down to a simple observation: I saw a need.

When I looked around YouTube, and other platforms like Facebook, I started to notice five main types of recovery content:

First, you’ve got the celebrity stories. Famous people with enormous bankrolls, bouncing in and out of rehab, making headlines when they get clean, relapse, or clean up again. And hey, I give them credit for speaking up. That takes courage. But for the average person, their experiences aren’t always relatable. Inspiration only goes so far if you feel like you’re watching someone live on another planet.

Second, there are the polished, hyper-professional presentations. You know the type: TED Talk-style productions with headset mics and elaborate slides. These folks are often selling a recovery program—or some secret sauce they promise will transform your life—for a hefty price. Now look, I have no problem with someone making a living through recovery work. But there’s a fine line between service and salesmanship, and a lot of these presentations feel more like the latter.

Third, there are the religious voices. Sometimes deeply intertwined with recovery, these speakers often lean hard into scripture and moralizing. And they don’t so much speak to you as they preach at you. That may work for some people, and I respect that. But as an atheist, that approach doesn’t resonate with me—and I know I’m not alone.

Fourth, you have the minor-league gurus. They seem to have it all figured out. They speak with supreme confidence, offering quick-fix philosophies or “mindset shifts” that supposedly change everything. And hey, maybe it worked for them. But real recovery isn’t magic. It’s work. It’s showing up. It’s messy and unglamorous, and often these folks gloss over that part.

Fifth, there are the fresh voices—people just starting out in recovery. Maybe they’ve got two months clean, maybe two years. They’re documenting their journey, which is great. But they’re still in the early stages, still learning to navigate life without substances. It’s valuable, it’s honest, but it’s not seasoned.

And that’s when I realized what was missing.

What helped me most when I first came into recovery were the real people. The ones who didn’t speak from a stage or preach from a pulpit. Just regular folks with lived experience—ten, fifteen, twenty years clean—who’d been through life’s ups and downs and stayed clean through it all. They didn’t talk at me. They talked with me.

They told me what worked for them—and, just as importantly, what didn’t. They didn’t try to sell me a cure or claim to have all the answers. They just shared their truth. They had enough time and perspective to help guide others without judgment or ego. And their message was simple: “This is what I did. Take what you like, leave the rest.”

That voice was missing in the sea of content I saw online. So I decided to put mine into the mix.

Not because I think I’m the face of recovery. I’m not. Not because I think I’m better than anyone else. I’m definitely not. But because I think there’s room—and need—for the kind of honest, straightforward, lived experience that helped me. Just some street-level recovery talk from someone who’s been there, stayed there, and is still doing the work—today.

I don’t have a secret. I’m not here to give a presentation. I’m not trying to sell you anything. I’m just here to share what I’ve gone through, what I’ve learned, and the hope I’ve found. Because if you’re struggling right now, I want you to know that there is a way out. It may not feel like it—but there is.

If you’re trying to get clean or stay clean, you don’t have to do it alone. And if I can be part of someone else’s spark of hope, even just a small part, then this video—and others like it—will have been worth it.

If you’re struggling, don’t give up on yourself.

There is hope.

You may not believe it, but I promise—it’s there.

—Ivan