Vulnerability: The Artist's Compass

How I'm learning at 33 how to share who I am instead of what I do.

When I was 14, only my closest friends and family knew I wrote music.

My relationship to composing was a kind of secret love affair: passionate in private, carefully guarded from the public.

One part of of me was desperate to be seen—and the other part terrified.

And it wasn’t until sophomore year of high school that I decided to go public with that relationship.

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Our English teacher invited us to interpret Toni Morrison’s Song of Solomon in any way we chose.

(…and it just so happened that my crush was in my class.)

Needless to say, it felt like the right moment to write and play some music in front of my peers.

But I was terrified.

I still remember that day like it was yesterday.

Our whole class walked to the opposite side of the school to the band room, just to hear my piece.

Through the performance, I kept myself tucked away behind the upright piano, head bowed down, eyes glued to the keys.

Even when I’d finished playing, I couldn’t bring myself to look up.

When I finally did, I couldn’t believe what I saw:

My classmates were in tears.

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Going public with my relationship to music changed everything.

I went from performing my piece to a classroom of 20 to an audience of thousands just one year later at Grammy Career Day in NYC:

At school, I became known as “the music guy”.

I went on to study composition in college, then moved to Nashville, began composing professionally, moved to Los Angeles, and got to work with some incredible clients and students over the next 10 years.

It was a dream come true.

And yet…

Something was missing.

I felt respected, but not seen.

And it wasn’t until I left Los Angeles that I realized what had changed:

Slowly over the years, I’d stopped allowing myself to be vulnerable.

The fear I felt back in the high school band room?

I wasn’t moving toward that feeling anymore.

Instead, I’d begun sticking to what felt comfortable—which for me was making educational content and talking with other musicians.

In that space, I felt competent and safe.

But deep down…

I knew I’d stopped growing.

So at the start of 2026, I took the biggest leap of faith in my life:

I stopped teaching entirely, so I could start learning who I was when I didn’t feel like the “music guy” anymore.

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Chasing vulnerability at 33 years old has been some of the hardest work I’ve ever done.

I’ve stepped way out of my comfort zone to have more honest conversations with friends, family, and clients.

To share how I’m feeling, where I’m stuck, and what I want.

But the reward I’ve gotten has been immeasurable.

In many ways, it feels like the first time in my life where I’m no longer hiding behind that piano.

I’m not Zach the composer, or Zach the educator.

I’m just… Zach.

And it’s helped me to show up for things I used to feel too scared to do.

Networking calls with big-name composers and talented visual artists.
Weekly trivia nights with my wife.
Collaborative social media content with other talented artists

And that vulnerability has even found its way into my music, too.

(If you’re curious about that, I’ve been sharing some early listens into some more personal compositions over on Patreon.)

The fear definitely isn’t gone, but it’s softening.

In 2026, vulnerability is my compass.

When I feel myself shrinking, hiding behind what’s comfortable, and unsure what to do next…

…I return to that memory of me huddled behind the piano in the band room, filled with fear and longing, and to the pin-drop silence as I released the final note.

And I’ll remember the tears in my classmates’ eyes.

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(P.S. If this resonated with you, I’d love if you shared it someone you think it will inspire.)