There is something special about a song revealing itself to you. It shows up when you least expect it, and it holds you hostage until you get it down on paper. That's exactly what happened with this one. It was originally titled "Anything Goes," and it came to me softly in a season when I was standing at a crossroads. There was a lot of noise in my life at the time, but this song found its way through all of it, starting with a single line: "I've been far away from home."
To understand where that line came from, I have to take you back a little further, to the moment my wife Anouk and I found out we were expecting. It was our first, and we were filled with excitement, along with an overwhelming sense of pressure. We had been trying to start a family, but it happened much quicker than we anticipated, and I knew right away that some things in my life were going to have to change.
At the time, I was a full-time musician. I was playing out three or four nights a week around town, mostly in bars, singing three-hour sets of cover songs. I wore "full-time musician" like a badge of honor, but if I'm honest, there wasn't much direction behind it. I wasn't sure of my artistry, and I wasn't chasing opportunities to share my original music, mostly because those gigs didn't pay the bills and were few and far between. So in order to provide, I played the soulless gigs, and instead of sustaining me on the way to my dreams, they slowly burned me out.
But I was becoming a father. I didn't want to be working late nights or traveling for gigs while my wife was up with night feedings and running on no sleep. I wanted to be there to support her. I also wanted to provide substantially more than I was, because my income as a musician was really more of a supplement to our household. Anouk was the breadwinner, and her job in project management was also what gave us our health insurance. At the same time, she felt in her heart that she wanted to be home with our daughter, shifting to part-time remote work so she could pour most of her energy into raising her. I wanted to be able to give her that, and to give it to the little girl we hadn't met yet.
Still, it felt like I was abandoning music. Even though I wasn't playing the gigs I wanted to play, and I wasn't making the most of my own artistry, that dream was still on my roadmap. I always assumed that if I played the soul-sucking gigs long enough, I would eventually fall into the kind of shows where I only sang my own songs to people who bought tickets to hear them. (Don't get me wrong, I did have some of those shows, but they were never my top priority.) As a man, I wanted to provide, and so I chose to provide.
I thought a lot about my music heroes during that time, and about their stories. They toughed it out on the road, played to empty rooms, and hustled until their break finally came. Many of them sacrificed a great deal to get where they were, and for some of them that included their families. They found fame and fortune through their music, but it came at the cost of being faithful and present in the lives of the people who loved them most. That was the last thing I wanted. I knew what it meant to have a reliable dad in the home, because that's exactly what my dad was for me, and I wanted to be that for my family.
So why do their lives still call to me? If I know the risks and the sacrifices, why do I still want that life? Is it because the music calls to me that strongly, or because nothing else will ever satisfy this hunger to chase the dream? Or, if I'm being really honest, is it because some part of me wants legacy and fame, maybe even glory?
I think the truest answer is that I want my songs to make a difference. I want my music to inspire people. The compliments that have always meant the most to me were never about my voice or my guitar playing. They were about my songs. I've always wanted to be someone who has something to say, and when someone came up to me after a show and took the time to tell me how one of my songs spoke to them, that was everything. I want my songs to affect people the way "Tears in Heaven" affected me the first time I heard it. And yes, I also wanted the Grammys and the recognition. I wanted to tour and sell out theaters and stadiums. I wanted to make albums and get recognized on the street, and I'm not going to pretend otherwise.
But I was at a crossroads. I could choose my family and provide for them, or I could choose music and put their well-being in the back seat. I knew I had to choose my family.
The path from there to here was not a glorious one. I spent nine months looking for a job and applied to more positions than I can remember. I landed a handful of interviews, but most of them turned out to be scams or pyramid schemes. At the end of my rope, I saw a help wanted sign for a dishwasher at a local restaurant. By that point I had convinced myself that nothing was beneath me and I would do whatever it took. I walked in, talked with the owner, and came close to getting the job. Then, with about a month to go before our baby was due, the owner told me that having a newborn would make me less available, and they needed someone who could work full time. So I was turned down for a job I thought anyone could get. I felt so insecure about my prospects and my education, and I started to wonder whether I was qualified to do anything at all.
Shortly after that, I started substitute teaching for $100 a day at a low-income, inner-city school. I saw firsthand how the American education system is failing, and how overworked and underpaid our teachers are. I lasted about a week before my daughter was born, and then I took time off to be with my family. I had a newborn daughter, a wife who was now a mother, and no way to provide besides my late-night bar gigs. I was filled with dread and sadness.
Then, five days later, I got a call about a job I had interviewed for three months earlier. It was an office job at a fintech company known for its work-life balance and strong company culture. It had full-time benefits and vacation days, and it paid a salary I had never made before. It arrived right when my confidence was at its lowest. I was proud, and I was so excited that my wife could finally transition to part-time work and mom life. But the music still called.
That was the beginning of an inner battle I still face today, because it turns out this choice gets made every day. It was never a one-time decision. Every morning when I get up to work a desk job, I make that choice. Every time I turn down an opportunity because it conflicts with our plans as a family, I make that choice. Every time I think about going on the road and leaving my family to make memories without me, I choose to stay. I know I'm making the right decision, but the music still calls me. After some time of putting family first, I started finding creative ways to make music a part of my life instead of a separate journey I had to leave home for. And it was in that season that "Peace of Mind" came to me.
The song is about my relationship with my dream. It's about the pursuit of my passions and coming to terms with the fact that it probably isn't going to happen the way I once imagined, and then deciding that I'm going to try anyway, damn it. Even if music comes second, I'm going to give it real time and effort. In the verses, I talk about feeling like I wasted my best years being afraid to put myself out there, and about not taking advantage of my youth and freedom while I had them. I also talk about how chasing this dream can feel like running away from my own peace of mind, because I'm constantly caught between choosing the dream and choosing to be the best version of myself.
The bridge is where my innermost thoughts live. It holds the permission I give myself and the excuses I make, along with the pride I still take in pursuing the dream:
"I know I should be sorry, but the fact is I never will, 'cause while your dreams are standing in line, mine's going up that hill."
I know that if I give up, it will never happen, and if I let it go, I'll regret it for the rest of my life. Family still comes first, but I've also come to realize that I can't run away from my calling.
Something that helped me see that more clearly happened in a recent counseling session. My therapist was still getting to know me, and I was telling him how scatterbrained and unsure of myself I had been feeling. I was insecure in my job, and that lack of confidence had started bleeding into my personal life. The regrets were piling up, and I felt like I couldn't get a grip. Then he said something that stopped me: "It sounds like you're in the wrong job." Of course I was. I had always known that, but I had never heard someone say it out loud. That bit of validation helped me realize that choosing to provide for my family doesn't mean I have to stop chasing the dream.
For so long, I had been running from my peace of mind, fighting the urge to pursue music for the sake of my family. What I finally understood is that my peace of mind is found in both. It lives in providing for my family and in chasing the dream, and those two things were never mutually exclusive. It's a balancing act, and it's a cycle where each one feeds the other. My family inspires my music, and my music breathes life into my family.
So what started as a song for coping with the choices I've made has become a song of hope. While your dreams are standing in line, mine's going up that hill.
If you've made it this far (thank you, truly, I know this was a long one), I would encourage you to go listen to the song. "Peace of Mind" is track 5 on my album Amsterdam, the last song on the A side, and in a lot of ways it's the heart of the record. It was the first song written for this album, and it might be the most important one. Maybe it will speak to you, and maybe you can play a part in its journey by letting it inspire you to chase your own dreams. Just keep the people you love close, and take them along on the journey with you.
Much love my friends, and see you soon.
-Carlos
