Finding Stillness: How Ambient Music Helped Me Through Addiction, Anxiety, and Depression

For much of my life, I struggled to find stillness. My mind was constantly racing—sometimes with thoughts I didn’t want, other times with an overwhelming sense of unease. I turned to alcohol as a way to quiet the noise, to numb the weight of anxiety and depression that felt impossible to shake. What started as a temporary escape became a cycle I couldn’t break. It wasn’t until I found my way back to music—specifically ambient music—that I began to understand healing in a new way.

The Weight of Addiction

Addiction is deceptive. It doesn’t happen all at once—it creeps in slowly, disguising itself as relief, as control. For years, I convinced myself that alcohol was helping me manage my anxiety, when in reality, it was fueling it. The more I drank, the further I drifted from myself.

Anxiety and depression have a way of isolating you, making you feel like you’re stuck in a loop that no one else can understand. The drinking only made that loop tighter. At my lowest, I realized that I was trying to escape my own mind, but I didn’t know how to exist without the distractions I had built around me.

Rediscovering Sound as Healing

Music had always been a part of my life, but during my struggles with addiction, I lost my connection to it. The urgency of traditional songwriting—the need for structure, for lyrics—felt suffocating. I needed something that allowed me to just exist, something that didn’t demand anything from me.

That’s when I truly discovered ambient music. The first time I listened to Brian Eno’s Music for Airports, I felt something shift. The absence of a defined rhythm, the way the sounds stretched out into infinity—it was exactly what I needed. There was no expectation, no pressure, just a space to breathe.

As I started creating my own ambient music, I realized how much it mirrored my own recovery process. The layers of sound, the slow evolution of a piece over time—it all reflected the patience and presence that sobriety required. Ambient music taught me that healing wasn’t about erasing the past; it was about allowing things to unfold naturally, without force.

The Power of Deep Listening

One of the most valuable things ambient music has given me is the ability to truly listen. In the past, I used alcohol to drown things out—to escape discomfort. But ambient music does the opposite. It invites you to sit with the discomfort, to observe it without judgment. It allows you to recognize that emotions, like sound waves, rise and fall—they aren’t permanent.

This shift in perspective changed everything. Instead of resisting my anxiety, I started using music as a way to move through it. I experimented with vintage synths like the Moog Matriarch and Korg PS-3100, exploring textures that felt soothing rather than overwhelming. I built looping layers of sound, letting each note breathe, much like I was learning to do in my own life.

Music as a Meditation

As I deepened my sobriety, I found that making music became a form of meditation. The repetitive nature of looping, the way a delay pedal could stretch out a sound indefinitely—these elements mirrored the stillness I had been searching for. I began to understand that healing isn’t about distraction; it’s about presence.

Meditation had always been difficult for me in the traditional sense, but ambient music became my way in. I found solace in sound, using it to center myself when my thoughts felt too heavy. Floating in an expanse of synth waves, I could detach from the need to control everything and instead just be.

Creating for Others

The more I created, the more I realized that this music wasn’t just for me. People began reaching out, telling me that they used my music for their own moments of stillness—for studying, meditating, even coping with their own struggles. That connection reminded me why I started making music in the first place.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that healing isn’t linear. Some days are harder than others, and that’s okay. But finding something—whether it’s music, movement, or meditation—that brings you back to yourself is invaluable.

For me, that’s ambient music. It’s not just sound; it’s a space, a refuge, a reminder that even in stillness, there is movement.

Moving Forward

Now, over a decade into my sobriety, I look back on my journey with gratitude. I know that I wouldn’t be here without music, without the ability to lose myself in sound and find clarity in stillness. Ambient music helped me rebuild my relationship with myself, and it continues to be my guide.

Wherever you are in your own journey, I hope you find something that gives you space to breathe, to listen, and to simply be.

Until next time, Your fellow human just being.

• Six Missing

The Gear That Shaped My Sound (Part 1)

The Gear That Shaped My Sound

Every artist has a toolkit—an array of instruments, effects, and processes that define their creative language. For me, that toolkit is built on texture, space, and the unpredictability of sound. Six Missing wouldn’t exist without the instruments that have shaped my sonic world, from vintage synths to looping techniques that stretch time itself.

The Role of Vintage Synths

For better or worse, I have a lot of gear—and I happen to love it all. To prevent this blog from running too long, this will likely turn into a multi-part series or a recurring feature to cover all my gear babies. Synthesizers have been at the heart of my exploration into ambient music. Early in my journey, I discovered that not all synths are created equal—there’s something undeniably human about vintage analog gear. Their slight imperfections, the unpredictability of their oscillators, and the warmth of their tone make them feel alive.

Some of the most influential synths in my setup include:

• Moog Matriarch – A semi-modular powerhouse that allows for deep, organic sound design. The way its filter interacts with evolving patches has been central to my compositions.

• Moog Minimoog Model D – One of the most legendary synthesizers of all time, its unmistakable tone brings warmth and character to any track.

• Korg PS-3100 – A polyphonic monster with rich modulation possibilities, perfect for creating vast, evolving soundscapes.

These synths have become more than just tools—they're collaborators in my creative process, each adding its own voice to the sonic conversation.

Delay & The Art of Sound-On-Sound

Before I ever touched a synthesizer, I was obsessed with delay pedals. There’s something hypnotic about hearing a note repeat, degrade, and take on a life of its own. This obsession led me to experiment with sound-on-sound looping, a technique where repeated layers of sound evolve organically over time.

Some of my go-to delay and looping tools include:

• Boss DD-20 Giga Delay – My introduction to long-form looping, allowing me to create lush, evolving textures with extended delay times.

• Strymon El Capistan – A tape-style delay that captures the character of vintage tape echoes, adding warmth and unpredictability.

• EarthQuaker Devices Avalanche Run – A pedal that blends delay and reverb into one ethereal wash of sound, perfect for ambient compositions.

By layering loops with subtle modulations, I create evolving atmospheres that feel immersive and organic, allowing each piece to develop naturally over time.

The Studio Workflow

Though I started with Pro Tools, I transitioned to Ableton Live in 2018 and never looked back. Its non-linear workflow makes it perfect for experimenting with loops, textures, and unpredictable signal chains. Whether I’m routing synths through a chain of analog delays or resampling a field recording into granular synthesis, my approach to recording is fluid and exploratory.

At the heart of my studio is an ethos: let the sound guide the process. Whether it’s a synth patch that unfolds in an unexpected way or a delay trail that becomes the foundation of a new piece, I embrace happy accidents. It’s in those moments of unpredictability that the real magic happens.

Why Gear Matters and Doesn't

At the end of the day, gear is just a means to an end—but the right tools can unlock something deeper. That said, I could accomplish this with far less gear, and I fully acknowledge that. If you're just starting out, don’t feel pressured to amass a collection—some of my favorite pieces of music started with just a single instrument and a simple effect. The process takes time, and the journey should be fun. Experiment, learn what works for you, and remember that creativity isn’t about how much gear you have—it’s about how you use it. Each synth, pedal, and effect in my setup has shaped Six Missing in its own way, providing the textures and colors that define my sound. While I’ll always experiment with new tools, it’s the ones that inspire me to listen differently that truly matter.

Until next time, Your fellow human just being.

• Six Missing

Meditation & Music: The Sound of Stillness

Meditation & Music: The Sound of Stillness

Stillness isn’t the absence of sound—it’s the ability to hear what’s already there. That realization changed the way I approached both meditation and music. For years, I struggled with traditional meditation, finding it difficult to sit in silence while my mind raced. It wasn’t until I discovered sound as a meditative tool that I truly understood what stillness could be.

The Role of Sound in Meditation

Meditation doesn’t have to mean complete silence. In fact, sound can be one of the most powerful gateways to a meditative state. Ambient music—particularly its evolving textures and long-decay reverbs—acts as an anchor, allowing the mind to settle while still engaging with the world in a different way.

I’ve always been drawn to the idea that music can create space—both physical and mental. The warm, evolving tones of vintage synths like the Moog Matriarch and Korg PS-3100 provide a sense of depth, a sonic environment that allows the listener to step outside of the constant noise of daily life. This is why ambient music pairs so well with meditation: it doesn’t demand attention, but it provides a space to simply be.

Sensory Deprivation & Deep Listening

One of the most profound meditative experiences I’ve had came through sensory deprivation therapy. Floating in a completely silent, weightless environment removed all distractions, forcing me to become deeply attuned to my own internal rhythms. I noticed every breath, every heartbeat, and—most interestingly—the way sound continued to exist in my mind even when external noise was absent.

That experience changed how I compose music. It reinforced the idea that silence is never truly empty, and that music isn’t just something we listen to—it’s something we feel. Now, when I create, I think about how the listener will experience the space between the notes just as much as the notes themselves.

Music as a Tool for Stillness

The beauty of ambient music is that it doesn’t rush you. It’s not trying to reach a climax or resolve a melody—it simply exists, evolving at its own pace. That’s what makes it such a powerful tool for meditation, deep focus, and relaxation. Whether I’m composing or listening, I find that ambient soundscapes provide a kind of structure for stillness, guiding the mind into a state of openness without force.

Some of my favorite moments in creating Six Missing have come from improvising with nothing but a synth and its filter, letting the tones shift naturally. There’s something about the way sound interacts with time that feels meditative in itself. It reminds me that everything is in motion, even in stillness.

Creating Soundscapes for Meditation

Many listeners have shared that they use my music for yoga, journaling, or simply winding down at the end of the day. I love that. It reinforces my belief that music can serve as a tool for well-being. It’s why I take such care in crafting evolving soundscapes—ones that don’t just fill space, but create it.

If you’re looking to incorporate music into your own meditation practice, start by focusing on how sound makes you feel. Pay attention to the way certain tones resonate in your body, how different textures bring about different emotional states. There’s no right way to meditate with music—just listen, breathe, and let the sound guide you.

Until next time, Your fellow human just being.

• Six Missing

Running Toward Clarity: My Relationship with Exercise

Running Toward Clarity: My Relationship with Exercise

For a long time, I never saw myself as a runner. It seemed like something other people did—athletes, morning warriors pounding the pavement before sunrise. But as with many things in life, the path toward running wasn’t about becoming someone else; it was about discovering another side of myself. Over time, running became more than exercise—it became a form of meditation, a way to clear my head, and, in many ways, a companion to my music.

Running as Meditation

I lace up my Nike running shoes and step outside, feeling the familiar comfort of well-worn gear. There's something about the ritual of putting on the same shoes, the same lightweight jacket, that signals to my mind: it’s time to move. The first time I truly connected with running was during a difficult period of my life. I had already been exploring meditation through music, using ambient textures and looping techniques to create space for reflection. But sitting still wasn’t always enough. My mind felt restless, and I needed movement.

When I started running, I realized it was another form of meditation—one that engaged my entire body. The rhythmic pattern of footsteps, the steady inhale and exhale, the feeling of air moving through my lungs—it all became a part of the process. Just like in music, repetition created a trance-like state, a place where thoughts could pass through without overwhelming me.

Soundtracking the Stride

Music plays a huge role in my running. Some people run to high-energy beats, but I’ve always gravitated toward ambient soundscapes and evolving textures. The slow-building nature of ambient music mirrors the gradual unfolding of a long run. It keeps me present, allowing me to focus on each step instead of the miles ahead.

I started curating my own playlists for running, often including some of my own compositions. The textures of vintage synths like the Moog Matriarch and Korg PS-3100 add depth to the experience, creating a sense of movement even when I’m standing still. The resonance of a long-decaying reverb or a gently pulsing delay feels like the perfect companion to an early morning run, when the world is quiet, and everything feels open.

The Discipline of Distance

Much like making music, running requires discipline. Whether it's committing to a long-distance run or breaking in a new pair of Nike running shoes, consistency matters more than perfection. You don’t always feel like doing it, but you show up anyway. Some days, the miles feel effortless; other days, every step is a battle. But consistency matters more than perfection. That’s something I’ve learned through years of composing, tweaking, layering sounds, and trusting that the process will lead somewhere meaningful.

The same goes for mental clarity. Some days, my mind is racing, tangled with thoughts I can’t quite sort out. But running—just like ambient music—has a way of untangling things. It’s not about pushing harder; it’s about surrendering to the process, allowing thoughts to rise and fall like waves, letting the motion itself become the therapy.

Movement & Music: A Lifelong Connection

In the same way that music became a tool for healing in my life, so did running. They are both acts of creation—one through sound, the other through movement. They require patience, presence, and an openness to the journey.

I never set out to be a runner, just like I never set out to create music that others would resonate with. But sometimes, the things we don’t plan become the things that shape us the most.

Until next time, Your fellow human just being.

• Six Missing

Struggles & Sound: How Music Helped Me Through Addiction

Struggles & Sound: How Music Helped Me Through Addiction

Music has always been more than just sound to me—it has been a refuge, a guide, and, at times, a lifeline. When I look back at my struggles with addiction, I see the moments where music became more than just an outlet; it became a way to ground myself when everything else felt uncertain. It was through sound that I found a path forward.

The Weight of Addiction

Addiction doesn’t happen all at once—it creeps in, slowly entangling itself into the fabric of daily life. What starts as an escape can become a dependency before you even realize it’s happening. I found myself caught in that cycle, searching for relief from the anxiety, the restlessness, and the ever-present feeling of being unmoored.

For a long time, I didn’t acknowledge the weight of it. Addiction is insidious because it convinces you that you’re in control, that you can stop anytime you want. But the truth was, I had lost control, and I needed something to pull me out of the spiral.

Finding Solace in Sound

Music had always been there, but during my lowest moments, it took on a new role. It became a constant, something I could rely on when everything else felt uncertain. The repetitive patterns of looping, the slow evolution of soundscapes—these elements mirrored the process of healing. Each note, each delay, each subtle shift in tone reminded me that change was possible, that growth was happening even when it wasn’t immediately noticeable.

Ambient music, in particular, became a safe space for me. The expansiveness of it—the way it allows the mind to drift, to breathe—helped me navigate the chaos within. I found comfort in the slow movement of synth pads, the warmth of analog textures, the unpredictable yet soothing quality of vintage synthesizers like the Moog Matriarch and Korg PS-3100.

Creating as a Form of Recovery

As I started to heal, I turned to creation as a way of processing everything. The sounds I crafted weren’t just compositions; they were reflections of what I was experiencing—anxiety, release, stillness, and renewal.

Six Missing became, in many ways, a reflection of this journey. The project was never about making traditional songs but about creating a space where sound could serve as a form of meditation, both for me and for those who listened. I realized that if music could help me find moments of clarity, it might do the same for others navigating their own struggles.

Music as Therapy

There’s a reason sound therapy has been used for centuries—certain frequencies, textures, and rhythms can calm the nervous system, reduce stress, and even help rewire thought patterns. Though I didn’t set out to create “healing music,” I began to recognize its therapeutic qualities.

I started receiving messages from listeners who told me they used my music to cope with anxiety, to focus, to feel less alone. That connection reminded me that music is communal, that even in our most isolated moments, we are never truly alone.

Celebrating Sobriety & Moving Forward

This April, I am celebrating 11 years of sobriety. It’s a milestone that reminds me how far I’ve come and how music has played a crucial role in my recovery. Each year reinforces that healing is possible, and that creativity can be a powerful force in that journey.

Moving Forward

Recovery is not a straight path. It’s a continuous process of learning, of unlearning, of discovering new ways to exist in the world. Music remains a vital part of that process for me. It serves as a reminder that even in the most difficult moments, there is still beauty to be found, still space to breathe, still sound to anchor us.

As I continue creating, I do so with the hope that my music provides others with the same solace it has given me. Whether you’re listening for relaxation, meditation, or simply to escape the noise of the world for a while, I hope you find something in it that resonates.

Until next time, Your fellow human just being.

• Six Missing

Resources for Support:

• If you or someone you know is struggling with addiction, help is available. Visit SAMHSA’s National Helpline or call 1-800-662-HELP (4357).

• If you’re experiencing thoughts of self-harm or suicide, reach out to the 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline by dialing 988 or visiting 988lifeline.org. You are not alone.

Without Mind: A Journey Into the New Record

Without Mind: A Journey Into the New Record

Every composition begins with a feeling—sometimes vague, sometimes overwhelming. Without Mind was born from a moment of deep stillness, a rare clarity that felt like an absence of thought yet full of presence. This record is an exploration of that space: where the mind quiets, and the sound takes over.

The Inspiration Behind Without Mind

Lately, I’ve been thinking about what it means to truly let go, to allow myself to exist in a space beyond constant analysis. We spend so much time processing, reacting, thinking—sometimes to the point of exhaustion. Without Mind is an attempt to capture what it feels like to step away from that cycle, to dissolve into something larger than the self.

Much of this idea was inspired by my own experiences with meditation and long runs. Those moments when everything clicks, and I’m not consciously moving but rather being moved, are where the inspiration for this piece came from. The music is meant to reflect that weightless, effortless state of just being.

The Creative Process

The writing process for this record took place during a time when I was tasked with creating music for ketamine-assisted therapy sessions. This unique experience deeply influenced the sonic landscape of Without Mind, leading me to explore textures and frequencies that could facilitate introspection and deep emotional processing. This piece started with a simple drone on the Moog Matriarch, combined with heavy use of eurorack/modular synths throughout the writing process, its shifting harmonics setting the foundation for the track’s sense of motion. From there, I layered in evolving textures from the Korg PS-3100, its polyphonic richness adding depth and space.

Rhythmic pulses emerge subtly, built from looping delays and granular synthesis techniques in Ableton Live. Instead of defining a rigid tempo, I let the sound evolve organically, following the natural rise and fall of the harmonics rather than forcing them into a strict structure. This approach allows the piece to breathe, mirroring the ebb and flow of thought when the mind is at rest.

The Sound of Stillness

I’ve always been drawn to the concept of stillness in sound—not silence, but the kind of stillness that comes from being fully immersed in a moment. The way a long-decaying reverb hangs in the air, or the way a low drone fills a room with warmth, creating a space that feels almost tangible.

Without Mind is an invitation to experience that stillness, to let go of whatever occupies your thoughts and simply listen. It’s a track that doesn’t demand anything from the listener, only that they exist with it, breathe with it, and allow themselves to be within the sound.

A Preview of What’s to Come

This record is part of a larger creative exploration I’m working on—something that continues the themes of presence, release, and deep listening. As I continue to refine these ideas, I hope to create more spaces where music isn’t just something we hear but something we experience.

For now, Without Mind is a moment of pause, a breath in sound form.

Until next time, Your fellow human just being.

• Six Missing

The Origins of Six Missing: A Project Born from Exploration

The Origins of Six Missing: A Project Born from Exploration

Six Missing was never meant to be a project—it was simply a personal exploration of sound. But, like many of the most meaningful creative endeavors, it took on a life of its own. What started as looping guitar textures in a quiet room grew into an immersive sonic world, and over time, it became clear that people connected with it in ways I never anticipated.

The First Explorations

Before Six Missing had a name, it was just me, my guitar, and an obsession with delay. My first real experiments with looping came from playing with an EarthQuaker Devices Avalanche Run, a pedal that immediately reshaped how I thought about sound. There was something hypnotic about the way loops stacked on top of each other, morphing and dissolving into infinite variations. That feeling of endless possibility became a central theme in my work.

In those early days, my setup was minimal—just a handful of pedals and a Fender Deluxe Reverb. But I found that simplicity gave me room to explore, to push the limits of what I could create with just a guitar and a delay loop. Over time, my experiments expanded. I brought in more effects, more layers, more intention. Eventually, my sonic palette grew beyond guitar-based looping into something more expansive.

The Shift to Synths & Ambient Soundscapes

As I refined my approach, I realized that I wasn’t just interested in playing music—I was interested in sculpting sound. That shift led me to synthesizers, which opened up an entirely new world of textures. My first synth, a Korg Minilogue, was an introduction into synthesis, but it was my discovery of vintage synths that truly changed everything.

The Moog Matriarch, Moog Minimoog, and Prophet-6 were my first foundational synths, shaping the sound of Six Missing. These instruments had a warmth and character that modern synths often lack, and each one brought a unique voice to my compositions. The imperfections—the slight warbles, the unpredictable modulation—made the sound feel alive. It was around this time that Six Missing began to take form as more than just a series of experiments.

The Name & The Meaning Behind It

The name Six Missing came from an eerie, almost supernatural experience in West Chester, PA. I was staying at a friend’s studio near the site of the Battle of Brandywine, and late one night, I felt an overwhelming presence—something I couldn't explain. It was as if I was being watched, and for a brief moment, I felt a cold sensation press against my back. It wasn’t until later that I learned about six soldiers who were unaccounted for from that battle. The experience stuck with me, and when it came time to put a name to my music, Six Missing felt inevitable.

Finding an Audience

For a long time, these pieces were just for me—an outlet, a meditative process. But when I started sharing them, something unexpected happened: people resonated with them. Listeners told me they used my music to focus, to meditate, to calm anxiety. It became clear that Six Missing wasn’t just about me—it was about creating space for others to feel something, too.

When I officially released my first collection of ambient compositions, I was floored by the response. The music found its way to people who needed it, and that encouraged me to keep going. I leaned further into the emotional core of the project, refining the way I approached sound design and composition.

What Six Missing Represents Today

Today, Six Missing is more than just an experiment—it’s a way of being. It’s a reminder that music can be a space for reflection, for stillness, for deep listening. Every piece I create is rooted in the idea of giving listeners a moment to breathe, to reset, to simply be in the present moment.

This blog will continue to explore the themes that have shaped Six Missing, from my struggles with addiction to my relationship with running, meditation, and self-discovery. Music is the thread that ties it all together, and I’m grateful to share this journey with you.

Until next time, Your fellow human just being.

• Six Missing

Who I Am & Why I Make Music

Who I Am & Why I Make Music

Music has always been a way for me to process the world—its beauty, its weight, and the in-between spaces where emotions live. From my earliest memories, sound fascinated me. I was drawn not just to melodies but to the textures of sound, the way it could envelop you like a warm embrace or stretch out into the distance like a horizon at dusk. That fascination never faded; it only deepened, eventually leading me to create Six Missing.

A Sonic Beginning

My journey started with the piano, my first instrument. While I found traditional lessons slow-paced, I quickly discovered that I could play by ear, and that felt far more natural. But it wasn’t until I stumbled upon my Uncle Chuck’s 1964 Gretsch Clipper in my grandparents’ attic that my love for music truly ignited. Surrounded by stacks of vinyl records, I felt an instant connection to the instrument, sparking a passion that would guide me for years to come.

Like many guitarists, I was shaped by classic rock, and Led Zeppelin’s IV was my gateway. The moment I heard the solo in “Stairway to Heaven,” I was hooked. But it wasn’t just the guitar work that fascinated me—it was the atmosphere, the space between the notes, the way sound could transport you.

The Path to Six Missing

As I grew, my musical tastes evolved. I explored delay pedals and looping, captivated by the infinite layers they could create. My first pedals—a Jekyll & Hyde distortion, a Zoom 606 multi-effects unit, and eventually a Boss DD-6—opened the door to soundscapes that felt boundless. By the time I transitioned to synths, beginning with the Korg Minilogue, my focus had shifted from traditional songwriting to immersive sonic exploration. Discovering vintage synths like the Moog Memorymoog and the Juno-60 further deepened my understanding of texture and space, shaping the sonic identity of Six Missing.

But the defining moment for Six Missing came in Astoria, Queens. What began as a simple guitar looping project evolved into something deeper. Encouraged by friends, I released my early ambient explorations, and the response was unexpectedly encouraging. It was clear that people connected to this music—not just as entertainment, but as a space for meditation, deep focus, and healing.

Why I Create

For me, music is more than sound—it’s a means of connection, a way to navigate the complexities of being human. I’ve found that ambient music, in particular, holds a unique power. It allows the mind to wander, to rest, to breathe. It can offer solace in moments of anxiety, a moment of stillness in a chaotic world.

That’s why I create. Whether it’s for someone meditating, studying, or simply needing a pause from the noise of everyday life, my goal is to craft soundscapes that offer space—to think, to feel, to just be.

This blog will be a place to share my journey—how Six Missing came to be, the struggles I’ve faced, and the inspirations that continue to shape my sound. If you’re here, I hope you find something that resonates with you.

Until next time, Your fellow human just being.

• Six Missing

I Am Not a Runner

I am not a runner.

Or at least that’s what I told myself as a kid.

Then again into my middle school years.

And yet again as a young adult.

And pretty far into adulthood, too.

If that’s what I kept telling myself, then it must be true. I am not a runner.

Growing up with a father who was a runner, I always saw how much he wanted me to be active. He ushered me outside into sports when I would’ve rather been inside with my imagination - and then in later years, with my guitar.

Once I had to start showing up to baseball practices and games, I realized quickly that I had no desire to become good at sports. It just wasn’t in my makeup. All that running. All that…outsideness.

Despite not being a runner I would, in fact, try running every so often.

Once every few years I would go for a run and hate it, chalking it up to being out of shape and not wanting to feel tired. In gym class, I would push my improv skills to the limit in an attempt to avoid running that dreaded mile around the faux-asphalt loop in the sun. “Uh coach, I think I pulled something and can’t really run today. So, coach, my lunch period was just before this and I ate a lot, I can’t run on a full stomach!” Eventually, when they did catch me off guard and force me to do the run, I would have moments during the second loop where I’d maybe glimpse what it felt like to have a small rhythm in my stride… but it was quickly replaced by the pounding of my heart in my ears and my wheezing breath. I’d get all in my head about the fact that I was running and not just allow myself to be running.

Post the gym-class mile, I never really gave running another chance.

As far as I was concerned, it was settled: I am not a runner.

I had not yet learned that maybe the stories I tell myself, or conversely, the “truths” I avoid thinking about, can be changed…maybe…

Let’s now jump ahead to late 2009. I was living on my own about two and a half hours north of NYC and I was finally getting really good at something - drinking.

In fact, I was so good at it, that I could even manage to do a lot of other things halfway decent while keeping my drinking uninterrupted. I was succeeding at my job, I was gaining notoriety for my music production skills, and I was even hanging onto relationships. But from the corner of the room in my mind, I was also watching myself completely and totally flush my whole life’s potential down the drain.

Barely hanging on…doing just enough to succeed? Was that really all I wanted out of this short little adventure we have earthside?

I decided that those were thoughts for another day - better to stuff them into the mind-closet and keep the bottle around because the bottle made me “feel better” and those thoughts of actually being better made me feel, well, not that way.

Drinking actually allowed me to feel at ease and quiet my overactive mind, so I suppose that was why I was getting so good at it–I thought I was helping myself. And to borrow a term so many alcoholics use, I was self-medicating.

But after a while, the thoughts I not-so-neatly stuffed in the closet started pounding on the door and demanding my attention. I’ll spare you the vignettes of ups and downs; the failed attempts at sobriety and the relapses once, twice, third-time's-a-charm type of thing, as they were as you would picture them - awful and not fun or successful for very long.

The clock raced forward and through the good fortune of meeting a person who truly saw me for me, relocating south to vibrant NYC, and taking ownership of my addiction (I am an alcoholic), I put the bottle down once and for all. I’m pretty proud to say that as of today, I’m ten years, one month, and twenty-two days sober and have zero plans on interrupting that life-decision.

So okay, I got sober. And suddenly, I realized…days are pretty long, aren’t they? And wow, getting up early before work means I actually have time to do some things. And holy crap - it stays light so much longer in the summer - what should we do!?

My partner and I began walking. We loved walking. Still do, actually.

And since we were living in NYC, we could spend the entire day aimlessly walking, never getting bored thanks to the ever-changing landscape that is the greatest city in the world. There would be times we’d walk in total silence for a few blocks and other times we’d be unable to stop talking…and okay, there were definitely some times I’d get the silent treatment for making us walk that extra block to make it to the subway station that was, unbeknownst to me, closed for the weekend for reasons only the metropolitan authorities could rationalize. But we were in-motion, and that was feeling good.

On weekends, we would grab bagels and coffee and head down to the park. From “our park bench” we’d watch people running by us, working out and jogging, some training, others joyfully strolling. While I, wiping cream cheese out of my beard, sat there and thought about how much better they were at taking care of themselves than me. “Maybe one day,” I’d think.

Finally, after many weekends on the bench and with a newfound exuberance for life, discovered as I continued to make my way out of the fog of alcohol, I decided that that one day could easily become today.

I grabbed the dusty running shoes I’d been keeping for that one day and laced them up, tossed on some sweats and…damn, this is hard.

It was as hard as I remembered. I had instant flashbacks of gym class excuses and all I really wanted to do was sit back down and eat that fluffy bagel and maybe give it a go again another day.

But I decided I wasn’t going to give myself an out like I’d done so many times before. I really wanted to try this.

iPhone apps had come a long way since I first got my phone and after some quick searching in the App Store, I found an app called Couch to 5k. It sounded up my alley so I downloaded it and gave it a try. Its purpose was to bring you from sitting on the couch…to running a 5k. (I love a clear mission and company name.) It had me running intervals - one minute jog, two minute walk. Another minute jogging, another two minutes walking, and so on. I paired it with music on my phone and hey, this isn’t so bad. I got through the first run and somehow didn’t want to die! Even better, I didn’t collapse!

But like anything - the adrenaline of starting something faded fast and on day five, I was huffing and puffing around the track again. But I made an agreement with myself, and I would not give up on this until I hit the 5k. So, hush negative thoughts! And keep going!

That reminder to myself seemed to work as I began going for a run every day.

I was even finding that I actually wanted to make time in the day to get back to the track. I really couldn’t wait to get out there - I was accomplishing something and this time it was good for me!

Before long, I did it - I ran my first 5k without stopping.

From there, what happened was exponential. (If you will, imagine a supercut montage with pumping drums and a triumphant guitar lick playing off of horn melodies and FIREWORKS!)

…You get the point. Time passed.

I began finishing a run on the track and thinking, hey, maybe I could run half way back home instead of walking. Soon after that, maybe I could run all the way home. Before I knew it, the track could no longer hold me and the distance I craved. I was widening my runs to include a jog from my apartment to the track, around the track, through the neighborhood and back home. Quickly I was learning how to lock in on runs - I was finding that sweet spot of stride and pace and breath and music and visuals and HOLY SHIT AM I MEDITATING?!

5k, which once was my goal, became my “slow day” - my baseline! Wow.

Now I was elevating to eight miles, ten miles, and wait a second…what’s a half marathon again? Well, hell yeah let’s keep going! I couldn’t believe my eyes as my watch logged 13.1 miles on a run.

Did I really just do that? Was I the same person who was putting away a pumpernickel-everything with vegetable cream cheese eighteen months ago?

This solo half marathon was unintentional- I really was just so locked in to the joy of it, that I just kept…going.

It seemed as though this story I told myself of not being something could potentially change. It didn’t have to stay “true”. Maybe it had never been true.

Because by all counts, I was a runner.

I started pushing myself to hit a sub-six minute mile - something I literally never thought I could or would do. Yet there I found myself on a rainy morning in Astoria, Queens - the soundtrack from Stranger Things pumping in my ears - flying down past the cars and cabs, watching buildings fly by, and I felt present with it all. Purely joyful.

I discovered the meditative aspect of running.

I was combining exercise and meditation in this blissful combination of mindful exercise. I was letting thought fall away and I was just being. I was running just for the fun of it.

My relationship with running continued to grow and remained an overall positive experience until I left NYC.

At the beginning of 2020 my partner and I packed up and moved to Austin.

We didn’t know a soul in Austin.

And we more or less picked a rental out of a hat in a neighborhood we hoped was good.

But we were on board for whatever came our way and were excited for a change.

A few months later, we found ourselves months into a global pandemic, trapped inside both for safety and because of the brutal, endless heat of an Austin summer.

Slowly, my running fell apart. I couldn’t get up early enough or stay up late enough to beat the heat. Neighborhood runs were different from city runs. The isolation of the pandemic was taking its toll.

And before I knew it, I went entire months without even lacing up my running shoes.

Truthfully, even writing about this part of the journey is difficult.

I struggled for a while to come to terms with the fact that I had lost something that I held so dearly to me. Something that was so unexpectedly wonderful. Something that made me feel so good and so in control of myself and my life. Just like that - it was gone.

And there I found myself again, mentally back on the park bench with a metaphorical bagel in my hand while I told myself again–like those years running in NYC had never even happened– “I am not a runner.”

Recently, my father came to visit and on a walk together, he was telling me how the process of recovering from a recent surgery has been.

He’s been a runner all his life, and we were reflecting on what it means to slow down - something neither of us are good at.

And while on our walk, he told me why he loves running: because you “can’t do anything else but be on the run.” I was a little dumbfounded at how simple that was. And when he said it, something clicked for me. I have been making ambient and meditative music as an artist called Six Missing for the past seven years and I never really thought about linking the meditation mindset to that of someone who has never knowingly meditated in their life… My Dad.

I told him he's actually been meditating his entire life and he didn’t even realize it. Because in meditation you can only really just be where you are.

We connected over our mutual love of that feeling, and it gave me a little burst of energy to perhaps try this running thing again. Because one of the biggest teachings of meditation is to “begin again.”

Maybe I could begin again.

So here it goes.

I’ve decided I’m going to start slow, give myself that foundation that I need in order to get back into the swing of it. I put together a playlist on Spotify that has some of my favorite meditative and ambient pieces from both myself and artists I admire to make for a meditative run. I thought it could be something to help me tune out the noise of my head and take in my surroundings.

We may never be able to go back in time to what once was. But we can move ahead with all those experiences in our pocket. So really, this is a love-letter to anyone who has started and stopped something in their life.

Even if I stopped running for a while, that doesn’t make me not a runner.

My story has changed a lot and I’m sure it will continue to evolve. But for now, I’m changing it once more.

I am a runner.

See you out there.

A blog.

So, you might ask yourself, “what is TJ doing writing a blog? Doesn’t he already do so much?” And the answer is well…I don’t know and…yes.

I thought it could be fun to start a longer form writing practice as I’ve found my newsletters can get a little wordy. But that’s the thing - I am so passionate about what I do and how I do it that I find it nearly impossible to condense it down to what are essentially bullet-pointed thoughts in a newsletter.

Alas, we’ve arrived at “the blog.”

I suppose you could say I missed the boat back in the early 2000s when everyone was blogging and writing posts - I think it would’ve probably helped me become more popular within the Instagram world earlier too had I done that. But I was too busy occupying myself with other things - namely music. Truthfully, I didn’t even really understand the purpose of Instagram when it first started. Share photos? Why? But very quickly the photos became a way to reach people and then people saw the power of that and figured out a way to upload videos. But then the videos could be used as a way to brand yourself and now you’re competing with actual brands so your videos had to get better; look better, sound better, be snappier. And now we’re making Reels and the trend is to make a 6 second reel, so on and so on…

It’s massively overwhelming being an artist, period. I don’t care what time you were or are one, it’s hard. Off the bat you’re a person who likely “feels” more than your average person so you’re acutely aware of human emotions, the human condition, nature, animals, all of it. Take that “feelingmachine” and drop it into a world where you have to advocate for yourself and your art 24 hours a day and you’ve got yourself quite the situation. But I actually love it. I love sharing my work and who I am and how I make my art. I truly enjoy hearing about the connections it makes with people and not in the self-stroking-ego way, but in the way that makes me feel truly good that I was able to drop some positivity into this chaotic world.

Here we are now. Coming back to the blog.

Is blogging more or less journaling? Maybe I’ll use it that way. There are already so many people out there using longform blogs as a way to catalogue their methods and work so I don’t feel the need to fill that void. Rather, I want to share more about who I am and the person that is behind my work. Perhaps you’ll find things that you connect with and say “hey, I feel that too!”

Okay, so. Blogging. Blogging.

Time see where this goes!