Breathwork

I haven’t written in a while. Not that I was doing it very regularly to begin with. Usually, to write something down and put it out there, I’d need the stars to align, so to speak.

I have to feel inspired to say something about a certain topic. I have to feel motivated in the moment to write. And I have to also have freedom in that moment (no work, other projects to attend to, work shifts, etc) to knock it out before the aforementioned motivation runs dry. Usually, this all happens around the time I have some revelation or news to announce.

None of those three are driving this specific blog. I’m changing it up. 

Of course I can’t entirely abandon all my lucky stars – I have to feel at least a little inspired to say something, right? Otherwise you’re reading nothing. Ew (WARNING: some of you may read to the end and feel like this was, in fact, about nothing). So I’m popping in the ol’ google docs to express the following point: 

I’m about to enter my last gasp. My last real push at a life I can feel proud of and fulfilled by. If you’ve read through any of my blogs or followed my story, you know it goes something like this…

Self-depricating/confident/humble/pretentious artist-guy works his whole adult life towards a goal and vision that he never actually comes close to accomplishing. Through it, he learns his greatest lessons through life’s more-regular hardships; relationship changes, identity crisis, and an ever-evolving and disappointing career arc. He keeps things funny, but sad, and would like to believe he’s more hot-than-not throughout the journey. 

I like to think I “keep it a hundred” as the kids would say. And so here’s my truth in November of 2025:

Things have been fucking hard. For a while.  And once again, I find myself taking what feels like major steps backwards in life. I find myself not accomplishing the goals I set out to – due to difficult circumstances, fear of failure, lack of perfection, or the fact that some days all I can do is survive that day. 

You ever approach the end of a year and look back at the goals you made at the beginning of it? It can be a masochistic practice, for sure. Not sure I recommend it (unless of course, you’re into that sort of thing). I did that this week.

Here’s a few things I wanted to do:

• Release the first YAN YEZ EP by mid-spring

  • Result: I released 1 of the songs we recorded for it in June, and have yet to finalize mix and master on the others. Stream futurehUSband after reading this blog, please and thank you

    
    

• Write a feature film

  • Result: I started to map out the script concept two weeks ago and have yet to write a single word for the actual first draft

    
    

• Move half-time to a bigger market like Chicago, New York, or LA in the fall for better artistic/entertainment opportunities

  • Result: I barely was able to stay in my apartment in Denver this year (and I mean barely), much less think about affording two places

    
    

• Get as fit as I’ve ever been in my life

  • Result: I actually achieved this goal in August, but then had to get a surgery for my long-term health which completely derailed my exercise and nutrition for months and I’m back to “square one” as of today

    
    

• Update my headshots and portfolio pics and seek a bigger agency for representation

  • Result: Didn’t do any of this and have barely had the mental capacity or physical health to even audition the last several months

    
    

• Find a healthy, stable romantic relationsh-HA. Let’s not even touch on that one. 

As you can see, I’m batting like whoever was the worst player on the Colorado Rockies in 2025. And sometimes, I feel myself having these really negative thoughts. Thoughts like..

“I’m never going to enjoy my life.”

“I have failed at everything I’ve ever set out to do.”

“I was made to struggle and barely survive. This is my pattern and I have never found contentment and never will. It is my nature”

It’s a lot to take in. These thoughts are dangerous if I were to succumb to them completely. And yet, I’d be lying if I said right now I didn't find them to be more-than-likely true. I read them back right now as I continue to type and feel they’re hard to argue with. If I were a lawyer – and I basically am as I represent myself in court this month (more on that another time) – I’d say the case set before me is a pretty good one. I’ll have a hard time proving myself not guilty on these charges. 

And then I have other thoughts about myself…

“I am a good man. A good friend. A good father.”

“‘I’m an artist unlike any other; I’m my own thing”

“Maybe everything I’ve been through will be the catalyst for my greatest work – my walk, hard as it may have been, has been necessary to achieve my ultimate purpose. There’s a greater mission for my life; be it divine or by chance, and I am well on my way.”

The thing is, I mostly believe these too. It’s an ever-revolving contradiction of identity and purpose, intensified by the trials and tribulations of my unstable life circumstances. Sometimes people describe such a state as an existential crisis. 

I’ve been living in an existential crisis for about 15 years. It won’t fucking end (off the top of my head, at least one of my friends is saying Amen, right now. I see you, girl). 

Every single day of my life I wonder why I’m not more normal. Why I feel behind my peers, or different from them. And the same day at the same time I loath the idea of being one of them. Not in a disrespectful way. But if I’m honest with myself, I do desire an abnormal life. And I, in turn, have gotten one.

There’s nothing wrong with a 9-to-5 and Costco and the suburbs and the traditional nuclear family and considering almond milk as a good part of long-term fitness and nutrition goals. Actually I can find a LOT wrong with all of those things. But that’s beside the point. What I mean to say is, there’s nothing wrong with a human being who values different things in their life than I do. Their values, goals, and routines are not inherently worth more or less than my own. 

But those things are not me.

The problem is the things that are me seem to be elusive, unattainable, or equally undesirable. I can’t even be sure of what I am. Are my poor circumstances an indictment on my intellectual or artistic capabilities? Does everyone's opinion or idea of me, in turn, define who I am? 

Some would answer, outright, no to those questions; only you define yourself and your true identity. But I think it’s more complicated than that. Example: If literally everyone in the world thought you were blue and only you knew you were green, would it make any difference? You may not be blue. But you would live your entire life as someone who was.

I would say that public perception, how the outside world views us, our socio-economic standing, and so-much-more have a massive impact on our lives and true identity. They contribute greatly to who we are – or who we become – in the course of our lives. If for no other reason than our reaction to them. 

My reaction to perpetually underachieving my goals has been a litany of negative self-talk, identity crisis, and depression.

And I do my best to pull myself out over and over again. But I’m growing weary. I feel the fatigue. And I don’t know how much strength I have left to climb out of yet another pit. But here I am, staring up from the bottom of one, once again. 

And I’m going to muster up the courage and strength; the resolve with a dash of delusion – to make one last gasp. One more running start up that small hill so I can leap and reach for a ledge and desperately try to pull myself up and over it to see the light and feel the grass; drink from a well of peace and rest in an oasis of self-love and public validation.

I’m going to release the music. Even though I don’t have the marketing strategies to promote them properly and I could only afford to record them myself and they’re not going to be up to my own standard. 

I’m going to write the film. Even though I’d rather drink and cry and watch Gilmore Girls every night.

I’m going to find my way back to that fitness (and mostly nutrition) routine. Because damnit if I'm going to be sad I'm going to look good doing it.

One last gasp. 

One. Last. Time.

And maybe on the other end of it all, there’ll be a life waiting for me that I’ve been striving nearly 20-years for; one of contentment and happiness. One I can be proud of at the end of all things.

And, of course, maybe there won’t be. Maybe it’s not my time and it never will be. I’m not special. I’m not average – I’m, in fact, below it. And I’ll find my fingers blistered and weary on the edge of that cliff that borders this perennial pit. And my body and mind will fail me. I’ll tumble down again. Back in the pit. And I’ll lament that my last gasp has failed (and low-key I’ll drunkenly watch soo much Gilmore Girls down there).

And then I’ll breathe in.. and I’ll realize I have another one in me. Even if I don’t want to admit it. This isn’t my first last gasp, friends. And while I hope it is my last, I know deep down that – while we all have limited breathes in this life – I have a lot more air in me than I want to admit.

For the 30 of you that read this: I imagine 7 will mock me, 12 will worry about me, 2 will wonder what the point was, and 9 will resonate on some level with it deeply. My hope and goal in writing this wasn’t necessarily for you 9 at the outset. I didn’t actually know where I was going with it. But now, as I conclude, I think I’m discovering the reason I started writing today to begin with.

It’s for you 9. And me. That makes the 10 of us. It's cozy in this pit, ain't it?

To the 10 people this is for, I’m going to inexplicably cite Anna from Frozen II and offer up this bit of wisdom: Do the next right thing. That’s all you can do. It’s all you have to do.

One breath at a time.

Sending love, babes.

Nico