The MuscleMusic Manifesto

Dear Artist,

When you step on stage as an abandoned child, you abandon your audience as well. They came to be nourished with aliveness, yet you arrived with an empty lunchbox, ready to steal their supply with the cunning desperation of a pickpocket. But that's not even the true tragedy—the real loss is that you deny your inner abandoned child a parent, casting them instead into the uncertain arms of strangers rather than into a nervous system that can hold you, unashamed, and love you.

You have ONE shot. One fierce, fleeting chance to be their lifeline, their parent in a fractured world. They're exhausted—tired of bullshit, tired of performances, tired of hollow promises. They've been swallowed by a world of advertising promising total supremacy over pain and uncertainty, only to leave them stranded in their seats. They may not even realize they are half-dead; they need to SEE you. They need proof that the vitality of a child can exist within the body of a mature adult, evidence of someone who has faced pain head-on without allowing it to diminish their spirit.

They don’t need another needy child craving applause; they need someone brave enough to open their chest and reveal what it truly means to live. But not like Jesus. Please, not like Jesus. Don't bleed out in front of everyone, proclaiming, “Look what I did for you.” Instead, open your heart as a spiritual surgeon, backed by the best co-regulatory team on the planet, capable of stitching up this resilient, unyielding miracle of a body.

This is not a drill. If you can get to 40 and not be half dead, you have won.

One of the reasons I chose the arts is because all the actors and singers I knew over 40 were ALIVE, funny, dynamic, and gave very little fucks. I knew, if I wanted to keep my spirit, there was only one path for me.

Your job—your sacred calling as an artist—is simple yet brutally hard: BE ALIVE. Not just on stage, but when you're slinging coffee, battling despair, feeding your kids, or staring down your greatest losses. Especially then. Aliveness isn’t reserved for the spotlight; it's cultivated in every raw, uncomfortable corner of your existence.

I chose the arts because every artist I admired over forty was beautifully, recklessly alive. They laughed deeply, loved fiercely, and moved through life as if each step burned brightly beneath their feet. They gave zero fucks about approval. This aliveness is rare because it demands relentless devotion. It insists you don’t numb out, hide, or shrink. It demands you wake up daily, ready to fight for your right to feel deeply and risk everything.

Forget chasing fame—let others line up for that fleeting illusion of validation. Your secret backdoor, your hidden path, is that you are the source. The moment you become truly alive, you create something extraordinary simply by breathing. Yet, being authentic doesn’t mean abdicating your role. In every moment, we’re given roles—play them well. Your job isn't merely to "be authentic," which often leads to overpriced retreats, healing merchandise, and fashionable self-help. Your job is to tell the story as clearly and truthfully as possible. Your job is to honor the power position you signed up for when you said, “I want to lead your nervous system.”

Yes, seek therapy, heal your wounds—but remember, this isn't about a single dramatic breakthrough. It’s about showing up daily, nurturing your nervous system, and claiming responsibility for your vitality. If you want to lead, to inspire, you must be the one who stays awake.

I don't want to pierce hearts only from a stage; I want to pierce hearts everywhere—in my friendships, my love, my everyday interactions. Because if you're only alive in front of an audience, you're nothing but a prisoner of applause.

There is more to artistry than conventional success. It’s a fierce commitment to breaking isolation, claiming connection, and unshaming your nervous system until you embody freedom itself.

Here’s your permission, if you've been waiting for it:

You’re the one you've been waiting for.