A couple of months ago, I went to a lovely folk music festival.
And I heard a man sing.
I don't know how else to say this. He stopped me in my tracks.
↳ His voice.
↳ His songs.
↳ The way he held the stage like Kris Kristofferson. (Under 40? Think early Chris Stapleton. First album. Before the world found him.)
↳ Everything original. Everything his.
↳ I stood there thinking: this man should be playing Carnegie Hall.
He was playing to thirty people on a Sunday afternoon. Gulp.
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Afterward, I walked up to him.
I told him exactly what I thought. That his music moved me. That his voice was extraordinary. That more people needed to hear it.
He went quiet. A little shy. Almost like the compliment didn't quite fit, like a coat that was the right style but the wrong size.
"Thank you" he said. "Thank you so much."
His name was Joe. Retired now after decades with a major company as an engineer and executive.
The kind of career that looks impressive on paper and costs you something real on the inside.
His whole life, even while climbing that ladder, he'd been writing music. Recording. Playing wherever he could.
He handed me a CD.
"Here" he said. "Take one."
I thought: this man has music the world needs to hear. And he's giving it away for free at a festival in the park.
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I asked him how he was getting his music out into the world.
He shrugged. "I do these events. Give out albums. You know."
His son was standing nearby.
When I started talking about Joe going bigger… playing more…letting more people in, I noticed a subtle shift. A slight redirect.
Very smoothly, his son handed me his own business card. Not Joe’s. His.
He said I could reach Joe through him.
I called twice. Left messages. Never heard back.
I don't blame the son. I understand him, actually.
Because here's what I know about the people who love us most:
↳ They want us safe.
↳ Nearby.
↳ To stay the size they've always known us to be.
Not because they're cruel. But because our growth asks something of them. It asks them to reckon with their own unlived lives. Their own music. Their own roads not taken.
When I went professional as a jazz artist at 51, two of my closest friends ignored me. Completely. Both musicians, far more trained than me. One played piano and violin since childhood. Named a child prodigy at 5. Never did anything with her music. The other played violin in two of our high school bands. Same story.
And there I was. Their friend. The crappy karaoke singer for years. Up on stage. Recorded my first jazz album on a world-class jazz stage. With world-class players.
They couldn't compute.
Psychologists call it Cognitive Dissonance. When reality conflicts so sharply with the story you've been telling yourself that your brain simply short-circuits.
Their story was more than likely: people like us don't go professional.
Then I did.
Joe’s story, the one his family might be quietly reinforcing is probably something similar.
"You've had your career. You've done your music. Wasn't that enough?"
I could just imagine Joe, being a kind caretaker of his family, not wanting to rock the boat. He likely accepted that story.
Even though somewhere inside him, his real music was asking to be really heard.
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Joe reminded me of my dad, who incidentally was also named Joe.
My dad was an extraordinarily talented singer. But for reasons I'll never fully know, some his own, some put there by others, he played too small.
He was told “Good men are not on stages…good men take good care of their families”.
That grief lives in me still. What I would pay to hold his album.
Maybe you recognize that grief too.
In someone you love. Or in yourself.
That feeling that you keep to yourself, that there's more.
It's why I do what I do.
Not to push people into anything they don't want. But to hold up a mirror and ask the question most people in their lives never ask them:
What would it look like if you stopped letting other people decide how far you go?
Your real music. Whatever form it takes for you:
It doesn't go away just because you keep it small.
It gets heavier.
The songs or screenplay you didn't write. The business you didn't launch. The voice you kept lowering so other people could stay comfortable.
The version of yourself you only let out in private, if at all.
It accumulates. IT GETS BIGGER, LIKE A BIG MEAN MONSTER…living in your head.
One day you look up. You realize you've been managing other people's comfort. At the expense of everything you could have become.
That's the moment I work with…
The one where you finally say: "This isn't enough. I know I'm here for more. And I'm done waiting for permission from people who were never going to give it.”
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If something in Joe's or my dad's story landed…if you felt a flicker of recognition, a “that's me” or “that's someone I love”, I want to offer you something.
Not the full six-month journey. Not yet.
Just 30 minutes with me.
The Miracle Breakthrough Session is exactly what it sounds like. In half an hour, you'll leave with:
Even if you've tried coaching before and nothing stuck.
Even if 30 minutes sounds too short to matter.
Even if you're not sure your situation is serious enough for this.
Let me tell you, 30 minutes with the right person can move you from playing to 30 people on a Sunday afternoon to the stage in front of 1,000s.
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Right now, you can access the session for $97 (regular price $297).
This offer closes August 21st.
If you don't feel a genuine shift by the end of our time together, I'll extend it by 15 minutes at no extra charge.
You have nothing to lose, except whatever's been keeping you small.
At Your Service,
E
