And Then What?

With my artistry, my flute playing, I am always practicing something. That feels natural for a musician. But the challenge, as Alexis Clements writes, is “…carrying on with the work.”

My day job in Arts Management is devoted to amplifying the work of creatives and creative organizations. It’s meaningful, and I absorb a lot through osmosis. Still, sometimes I wonder about my own creativity, not just practicing so I’m ready when the next opportunity appears, or keeping my “chops” up, but actually building toward what I want. For example: playing regularly in a chamber ensemble. Not someday, now, or soon.

The word boundaries floats around in my head. I understand the realities of life: there aren’t endless hours, and existing is expensive. Maybe what I need isn’t more ambition, but more balance, to fill my own cup as deliberately as I fill others’.

And yet, when I take stock, I’ve done a lot. I’ve experienced countless concerts. I have degrees in music and arts administration. I’ve won a national competition. I’ve run a music organization, served on boards, collaborated with chamber groups, including one I started, performed on many stages, even internationally, been written about, and maintained an active public presence.

So what else do I need?

I’ve mentioned this before, but through watching “The Good Place” I’m reminded that one of the great human projects is the search for fulfillment. This idea has been distorted, exacerbated, by capitalism, which trains us to see accomplishments as both necessary and never enough. Achievements become fleeting. And yet I’m also reminded of the power of pause, of presence, of gratitude. Like my aunt says when I ask her how she’s doing: “I woke up.”

Another word that keeps returning is consistency. It holds both promise and danger. On one hand, consistency means presence, I want music to be more present in my life. On the other, it can become hoarding: the feeling that I must stay on certain paths to preserve happiness, a kind of scarcity mindset disguised as stability.

I feel at a crossroads, again. Do I need a pivot? And if so, how do I pivot gracefully? Or maybe the deeper question is: how do I loosen my grip on perfectionism? Do I need change, or can I learn to be content with my current life without calling that settling?

Being a creative is both a privilege and a strain. Sometimes I wish I could simply play the flute, full stop, but that choice comes with consequences, like financial strain. I’m lucky that I genuinely enjoy arts administration to support my creativity. Still, my life has been shaped by a narrative of support. Growing up in a single-parent household, I learned early to be a caretaker, my mom needed my support, and sometimes couldn’t give it back. That role doesn’t always fit easily; it can curdle into resentment.

Right now, I’m relatively untethered: single, childless, and without living parents. In some ways, that makes risk more possible, especially with the skills I’ve accumulated. Yet, I wonder if I’m just chasing the emotional echoes of past “highs,” and whether future ones could ever feel the same. I won’t know unless I try.

But I also know I need a foundation. And foundations are unevenly distributed. I didn’t grow up with one. I have certain forms of access now, yes, but generational wealth ain’t one.

Whoever is reading this, thank you for staying with me in this reflection. I imagine many of us are having some version of this conversation: the negotiation between money and passion. It would be easier if we lived in a society that truly prioritized “affordable housing and free healthcare, as well as care for children, elders, and those with disabilities—not to mention redistribution of economic, political, and workplace power.”

So how does an arts administrator lean more fully into their artistry?

Maybe by accepting that less money may accompany more alignment. Maybe by making slower, more intentional shifts as nothing changes instantly. Or maybe the real question is whether I can design a life that holds both, knowing that balance is rarely, if ever, 50/50.

For now, I keep thinking. And I keep returning to Alexis Clements:

“We all have to fight like hell for better living and care conditions for all of us. Because, as the United States currently stands, the pool of people struggling to make ends meet is expanding exponentially. We artists face unique realities in our lives and creative careers, but we are not uniquely constrained economically—that’s something we share with millions of others whose incomes and work are inconsistent or precarious. And that shared reality is a position of strength from which to organize with others for changes that will benefit everyone, not to mention allowing us, as artists, to carry on with our work.”

In closing, I wish for all of us more abundance, more courage to lean into possibility, even if only for a moment.