Boulder, CO – “Making it OK” – Sept 25, 2001

Colorado — This is truly home.  Here, my house is vast—the sky is my ceiling and the mountains, my walls.  Even alone, as I find myself this morning – with Dean in Thailand, dad chasing highways, mom and Ben on Martha’s Vineyard and the band scattered who-knows-where — I feel held.  Anchored. There’s something about this place that quiets the noise and brings me back to center.

I clutch a mason jar filled with scalding lemon tea, warming my hands against the cool morning air. The familiar trail to Sanitas calls.  It’s a trail tucked into the folds of the front range. It etches its way through green fields, across a perfect stream up into the jagged beauty of purple rock formations that jut from the earth like a stegosaurus’ spine or a pair of prayerful hands.  When I reach the top, Boulder stretches below—a snapshot of the life I’ve built yet rarely stop to live in. My heart pounds against the thin, crisp air, and in this moment, I feel whole and peaceful for the first time in ages.

I try to remember who I was before I started touring and what that person really wants. My sense of success has gotten undeniably skewed —a casualty of the hypnotic heatwaves that ripple off endless highways, of chasing milestones that always seem just out of reach— more CDs sold, more gigs booked, better venues, better pay. On the flight home from Reno, I had an epiphany so sharp it felt like a slap to the face: “Making it” doesn’t necessarily mean “making it OK.”

That realization brought me here, to the summit of my world in Boulder, where I’ve come to reassess what success really looks like—and to ask myself whether music still plays a role in it.

Apparent right away is how much success means connection for me.  I think of the camaraderie that comes with life on the road—the sardine-can closeness of five people crammed into a van, sharing the bittersweet humilities of small-scale touring. The struggle, the inside jokes, the laughter forged by shared challenges. Those moments are what I truly cherish about the lifestyle. But the reality of small-scale touring comes at a cost, and those costs are mounting.

There’s a pressure that looms over every musician (perhaps me more than most with two famous musical parents)—a silent expectation to climb a one-way, invisible ladder. Clubs. Theaters. Amphitheaters. Arenas. Stadiums. Each step upward validates your “success,” not just for the outside world but for your bandmates too, who’ve paid their dues and deserve more than cramped vans, bad pay and nameless motels. This trajectory weighs heavy on me, warping my definition of success and feeding the insecurity of who I think I should be in the minds of others.

And then there’s the financial reality. Every dollar earned is a dollar spent, getting us back on the road, and keeping the vision alive. It’s draining and disheartening to have invested so much into this pursuit to only now be nearing the break-even point.

Then there’s the physical toll of touring —drinking too much, staying up all night, risking our lives with all-night drives, and eating crap food. This lifestyle is starting to feel at odds with my desire to live past 40. The grind is wearing me down, threatening to leave me burnt out before I get a chance to burn bright.

But perhaps the greatest cost of a life spent on the road is love.  I know what the life of a musician does to love.  It contorts it, pulls at it, feasts on it, and leaves it dead on the side of the highway like road kill, and that’s not the worst of it. 

Having fallen in love with the man I dream of marrying one day, I find myself at a crossroads— love vs. music.  Apart from the harm I know my career can do to a relationship, there’s the glaring ache at the thought of being away from him—to miss out on mornings in bed, late-night talks, and the simple joy of being present—feels unbearable.

How can I reconcile this growing desire for a grounded, shared life with the transient, thankless, punishing chaos of a life spent on the road?

In addition to all of this, the world outside my small bubble feels heavier, too. The twin towers have fallen. The country is at war. These collective tragedies make the urgency for connection feel even more pronounced while simultaneously making my world of music feel small, almost trivial by contrast.  Paradoxically, the life I’ve built to connect with others—through music—has often left me feeling disconnected. From family. From love. And most importantly from myself.

Standing here in Colorado’s stillness, I can see the shape of a truer, more robust version of success. One that isn’t built on arbitrary milestones, ticket sales, or venue upgrades. It’s about fostering authentic connections—whether through shared laughter on tour or quiet moments with loved ones. It’s about being rooted in who I am rather than chasing who I think I need to be for others.

Does music still play a role in that vision? Maybe. Maybe not in the way it has in the past. Perhaps it’s time to explore what music looks like when it’s not tied to hustle or survival. Maybe music could return to being a source of joy rather than a measure of achievement.

What I do know is that ownership of my life and my choices feels more critical than ever. To find balance. To breathe. To connect. Here, in Colorado, under the vast ceiling of sky and within these steadfast mountain walls, I feel like I’m finally beginning to understand what success could really look like. It’s not “making it.” It’s making it OK—making it right for me.

And isn’t that worth everything?