on the quiet supporters

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The first gig I ever played was at a club called Pig n Whistle in Hollywood. I sang to a handful of bargoers, pint after pint in hand, and my parents, sitting front row. They were there because they wanted to be—but also because, legally, I couldn’t have entered the bar without them. I was fifteen.

Psychologically, I wouldn’t have made it this far without them either. They’ve always mirrored my dreams, stepping in where I ask, lifting small weights off my back—both figuratively and literally. My dad used to carry my guitar from the house to the car, from the car to the venue—at every single show.

Then I moved to New York.

Lately, I’ve been propping up the door I built months ago to promote Protagonist—a form of promotion that doesn’t take too much time or money, unlike The Protagonist Project, which, while deeply fulfilling, requires planning and investment. My name is on the door, but it’s Alex who carries it up and down our apartment stairs. It’s him, kneeling on the gritty New York concrete, screwing in the nails to hold the door up against the brewing winter wind. He comes to my gigs, over and over, watching the same set again and again—just to carry my guitar from the apartment to the train, from the train to the venue. Just to be there. Just to carry something. Just to carry my dream.

So, wandering New Yorker—as you listen to your favorite artist today, or notice a mural for the first time on your walk to work, think about who helped get that artist into your ears or eyes. Who dared to dream with them? Nod to the quiet supporters, and maybe, just maybe, in the magic of New York, they’ll feel it.

Who do you think of when you reflect on who’s carried your dream?

Aforementioned quiet supporter. Perhaps the loudest of them all.