So Close, Yet Just Out of Reach

There is a special kind of ache that comes from standing inches away from the life you’ve always dreamed of. Not the kind of dream that feels distant or imaginary. Not the kind that belongs to “someday.” I’m talking about the hopes that sit right in front of you—

the ones you can see, taste, breathe in… yet somehow, your fingers never quite touch them.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve had one dream that never let go of me: music. I wanted to live in it, breathe it, work in it. I wanted to be surrounded by bands—traveling with them, managing them, helping build their careers, booking shows, maybe even owning a venue someday. I didn’t just want to watch music happen—I wanted to be part of it. I wanted to stand in the middle of the chaos, the lights, the energy, the heartbeat of live shows and know, “This is where I belong.”

And I’ve had tastes of it. I’ve thrown shows, helped create memories, watched crowds light up, and watched the bands themselves come alive on stage—their passion pouring out, their music connecting with people in real time. Being there, being part of that moment where everyone in the room feels something bigger than themselves… that was everything I dreamed of. It felt like purpose. It felt like home. And when you’ve felt something like that, it never truly leaves you.

When I go to concerts now, I am completely immersed in the music. I get lost in the lyrics that speak to me, the voices that carry emotion, and the music that somehow heals my soul while filling me with energy. But while I’m standing in that crowd, I also find myself fantasizing about being on the other side of the stage—not as a performer, but as someone helping make it all come together. I’m in awe of the talent, of the art, of what music can do to people’s hearts. And the funny thing is… I don’t dream of doing it for money. I dream of doing it because it makes me happy. Because it makes me feel whole. Because it makes me feel alive.

There are times I feel like I’m running out of time, like I’m getting too old, like life somehow passed me by while I was still reaching. But then I think of a woman who didn’t start working with bands until she was 60. She never gave up. She refused to believe her time had passed. And when I think of her, something in me whispers, maybe my time will still come, too.

Because not everyone will understand this kind of love. Not everyone understands what it means to crave being behind the scenes—the planning, the chaos, the heartbeat of the industry. The love I have for music runs deep in a way that is hard to put into words. Only the people who need music… who breathe music… who feel it like oxygen… will ever truly understand what it means to carry a dream like this.

Still, there’s a heaviness that settles in your chest when you feel stuck between who you are and who you are desperately trying to become. It’s like living in a hallway between doors—behind you is everything you’ve survived, ahead of you is everything you’ve prayed for, and you’re frozen somewhere in the middle, banging on the one that won’t open.

People love to say things like “Everything happens for a reason,” or “Your time will come.” Maybe they’re right. But sometimes, hearing that doesn’t make the pain lighter. Because hope isn’t always gentle. Hope can hurt. Hope can bruise. Hope can keep you awake at night wondering how long you’re expected to carry it.

There are days it feels unfair. Days you question your worth. Days you wonder if maybe you were foolish to believe in yourself at all. You watch others living the life you crave and you wonder, “When is it my turn?”

It doesn’t make you weak to admit that it hurts. It makes you human.

But here’s the quiet truth inside that ache:

If your dream still burns inside you, if it still pulls at you from just out of reach, it means it’s still alive. It means you are still alive. It means something in you refuses to let go, even when it hurts to hold on.

And that matters.

Maybe today isn’t the day everything falls into place. Maybe tomorrow won’t be either. But the same heart that hurts is also the heart that hopes. The same hands that reach and fall short are the hands that will one day hold what they’ve been aching for.

You are not failing because it hasn’t happened yet. You are enduring. You are becoming. You are standing in the tension between pain and purpose, and that space is hard—but it’s powerful.

One day, the stretch won’t feel so far. One day the reaching will stop, and you will simply be there. And when that day comes, every tear, every disappointment, every moment you almost gave up will mean something.

Until then, it’s okay to say it hurts. It’s okay to miss it. It’s okay to grieve the dream you’re still chasing. And it’s okay to keep hoping anyway.

Because sometimes the bravest thing you can do is continue to reach for the dream that keeps calling your name—even when it’s just out of reach.

Peace, Love and Loud Music,

Mickey