The Bravery Of Vulnerability

The Bravery Of Vulnerability

There’s a before and after. Before, I thought vulnerability was a weak spot in the rhythm—something to cover up with a flashy fill or a drink. I was 42, playing with Coltrane’s ghost in my head, but my hands were shaking too hard to hold a stick. My daughter, Maya, stopped drawing pictures of me with a drum kit. She started drawing a monster. One night, after I missed her school play because I was passed out in a dive bar, I found that drawing on my kitchen table. The monster had a drumstick for a tail. I sat there, the bottle empty, the silence louder than any cymbal crash. That’s when I stopped running from the truth.

The shift wasn’t dramatic. No spotlight. Just me, alone at 3 a.m., staring at that drawing, whispering to the empty room: I can’t do this alone. Not to God. Not to a sponsor. Just to the broken man in the mirror. I called my ex-wife. My voice cracked. “I’m an addict. I need help.” I didn’t say it like a plea—I said it like a fact. Like the bassline in a slow blues. And she didn’t hang up. She said, “Okay. Let’s get you help.”

You learn to play the rest notes too. The silence after the crash is where healing starts. I stopped hiding behind the music. I showed up at AA meetings with shaky hands, admitting I was lost. I apologized to Maya—not with grand promises, but with a quiet “I’m sorry I wasn’t there.” She hugged me. Her small arms around me felt like the first true beat I’d heard in years.

Now? I’m 78, and my grandkids call me “Drum Grandpa.” They sit on my lap while I play simple rhythms on a practice pad. “Why’s the quiet part so important, Grandpa?” they ask. I tell them: Because the music lives in the space between the notes. That’s where the courage is. Not in the loud solo, but in the choice to be still, to be seen broken. I lost everything to fear. I rebuilt it with the only thing stronger than shame: the bravery to say, “I’m not okay.” And that’s the only solo worth playing.

Here’s what I know after 78 years: The bravest thing you’ll ever do is let people see you breathe. Not the perfect rhythm. The real one.

— Roger Jackson, still playing

— Tracy Carlson, saying the thing since 2018