Over the years, I tried.

I’d invest in lessons, only to find myself across a music stand from a virtuoso who could shred like a god but couldn’t explain the why or how in a way my beginner’s mind could grasp.

Phenomenal players, terrible teachers.

My fingers tangled, my brain ached, and frustration built until the guitar went back in its case—another failed attempt.

The thrill was gone before it began.

Retirement presented a choice: let the dream die quietly, or give it one last, honest shot.

The thought of repeating that cycle made my stomach clench, but the desire to coax a soulful note from six strings was stronger.

This time, my criteria were clear: I needed a teacher, not just a player.

And then, I found Tony…