Always Beginning

What this space is for

I’ve been feeling for a while like I need a different place to share things. Somewhere to speak less hurriedly, with more room around the edges, and with a kind of cadence that doesn’t always require resolution.

More and more, I notice how the platforms I use shape the way I communicate. On Instagram, especially, I find myself subtly changing things to chase its rewards—nudging them toward performance or posturing. The algorithm is always hungry, and I can feel it bending my brain to feed it. I start to feel captive to habits I didn’t mean to form.

So I’m creating this Substack, to make room for something more ongoing, more discursive. A space for long-form thought, but also for questions and fragments. I’ve gestured toward some of this in the little carousel essays I post from time to time. But the compression required to fit my words into bite-sized squares has started to feel restrictive. I’m interested to see how it feels to share without contorting myself to fit an arbitrary frame.

I think this medium may be also better suited for things like playlists, phone recordings, and links—stuff that’s become increasingly clunky to share elsewhere. “Link in bio” has grown cumbersome, and the workaround I use to post voice memos as video clips—where I hit screen record on my phone and keep tapping every thirty seconds or so to make sure the display doesn’t turn off—is absurd at best.

This could also be a place for holding conversations, interviews, and works in progress, as well as being a more straightforward way to share tour plans and other news, now and then. And who knows what else.

As I’ve been considering all this, I’ve also been asking myself why I feel the need to share in public at all. If part of what I’m resisting is the performance of selfhood, then why not just keep a journal? Why do this in view of others?

Anne Lamott speaks to this question in the introduction to her book Bird by Bird:

“Who knows what this urge is all about, to appear somewhere outside yourself, instead of feeling stuck inside your muddled but stroboscopic mind, peering out like a little undersea animal—a spiny blenny, for instance—from inside your tiny cave?”

It’s a funny image, but a resonant one. That “spiny blenny” sounds a lot like how I sometimes feel: peering out, unsure whether I should stay hidden or speak. And in naming the smallness of that cave, Lamott seems to suggest that stepping outside it—however tentatively—is a kind of necessary act. I’m not sure I fully know why I feel drawn to do that—but I recognize the tug.

So I’ve been sitting with that feeling, trying to understand what’s underneath it. A few things have started to surface.

I’ll start with an admission, one a bit crude to say aloud but probably also obvious and human enough: I like attention. Not indiscriminately, I hope. And not just in a chasing-likes kind of way—though I’m not immune to that—but in the form where someone sees or hears something I’ve offered and feels a spark of connection. Maybe this Substack is just a way to seek that kind of attention more directly—on my own terms, without feeling subject to the whims of the algorithm.

But I don’t think that’s the whole reason. There’s also something about writing toward a possible reader that helps me better notice what I think. It brings a different kind of clarity than writing only for myself. It seems to sharpen my awareness—as if by tuning the signal for others to receive, I also tune it for me.

And being aware and attuned feels harder than ever—and more necessary—these days, in the midst of everything we’re living through. Crisis upon crisis. So many things pulling at our attention, our nervous systems, our sense of coherence. Like most people, I’m doing my best to make sense of it, to stay present without shutting down. Writing helps me with that—it gives shape to what I’m noticing and lets me try to imagine how things might be otherwise.

That said, I sometimes wonder what gives me the right to say anything at all about these larger forces. I’m just a piano player, right? Who am I to raise questions about the way society is organized, or the future we’re heading toward? Wouldn’t I be better off just staying in my lane—practicing, writing music? Or at least just stick to talking about that?

Well, maybe. And to be sure, I’ll certainly talk about music a lot here—probably more than anything else. Music is, after all, what I’ve devoted most of my life to. Not that I feel like an expert—if anything, the deeper I go with music, the more I realize how much I still don’t understand. But I do know that it’s a world I’ve lived inside for a long time, and it’s one where I’ve learned to observe things closely.

There’s more on my mind than just music, though. And if I’m no expert on music, I’m certainly no expert in these other domains. To be clear: I believe deeply in the value of lived experience and dedicated study—especially when it comes to the wider social and planetary questions we face. There’s essential work being done by people who’ve spent years bringing care and rigor to the task of making sense and helping chart a path forward.

But it’s easy to feel like conversations about these subjects belong only to people with more credentials—people who “know better.” And I wonder if maybe that’s part of the problem, part of how we got to where we are: deferring too much, waiting for someone else to speak. I don’t have answers. I don’t even claim to have a fully coherent view. But I do believe that imagination withers when we convince ourselves it’s not our place to wonder aloud.

This isn’t going to be a space of hot takes or performed expertise. There’s plenty of that on the internet already, by people who can do it better than me. What I’m looking for is something else. A space that leaves more room for process. Where not knowing isn’t a liability. Where complex problems don’t need to be “solved” in order to be speakable.

Not everything here is going to be big-picture analysis. Most of the time, it probably won’t be. Some entries will be about music. Others might touch on parenting, or provide small glimpses of beauty. Or just a book or podcast recommendation and a few thoughts. I want this space to be wide enough to hold all of that—without pretending the world isn’t on fire.

Some of what I share may be clear or resolved. But just as often, I want to name the places where I still feel confused, or where I’m trying to grow. The contradictions I carry. The habits I’m trying to change. I don’t have it all figured out—maybe none of us do—and I’d like this space to reflect that, too.

The title—Always Beginning—is a phrase I’ve had with me for years. It used to live in my bio, both on Instagram and my website: Always beginning. Often perplexed. Drawn to beauty and the absurd. A bit odd. This all still applies. Anyone who knows me can attest that I certainly haven’t outgrown my oddness.

Calling this space by that name is my way of setting an intention. Not to constantly start from scratch, but to resist calcifying into certitude. To stay oriented toward continual listening and adjustment. And to trust that the next step doesn’t need perfect clarity to be worth taking.

I’m not abandoning Instagram altogether. It’s been the platform where I’ve connected most consistently with folks over the years. I imagine I’ll still use it, but with a clearer sense of what belongs there. For the more nuanced, longer, or stranger stuff—I want this to be the place.

Anyway, that’s a lot of words. Thanks for reading them. I suppose I could have also just said: “Hey, I’m starting a Substack—come check it out!” Probably would’ve sufficed.

If you’re here at the start: thank you. I don't take lightly the fact that I can write, and that I might be heard. There’s a lot on my mind these days—often more questions than answers. And while I’m not sure exactly where this is headed, I’m certainly curious to find out.

—Aaron

P.S. One thing I’m still unsure about is whether or not to offer a paid tier here. I don’t want to feel beholden to expectations or stuck in a cycle of needing to churn out content—especially with two young kids, a full creative life, and the unpredictability of touring. And since I’d like this to move at its own pace, the rhythm of my posts here may be slow or irregular.

So for now, everything will be open. If you find what I’m doing to be valuable and want to support it, that option will be there—but nothing will be paywalled, at least for the time being. That may evolve. Maybe down the line I’ll explore some kind of subscriber-only offerings. But the spirit of this is primarily open-source.