My Guitar Isn’t a Report Card

Have you ever turned something joyful into a pressure-filled chore?

That’s what Jim did when he brought his corporate mindset into guitar. Progress had to be tracked. Deadlines had to be met. There was no time for mistakes.

Until one moment of honest self-reflection changed everything.

Jeff Beck’s passing in 2023 hit me hard—just one year into my guitar journey. He was 78. I was 65.

I’d seen him live in the ’70s. He always looked like he could walk off stage and run a marathon. Now he was gone. And I was here—retired, frustrated, and questioning why I had picked up the guitar in the first place.

The Magic of Starting

That first moment still stands out.

Opening the case. The slow down-strum with a pick. The strings ringing out one by one. Magic. I loved the feel of my fingertips on the strings. I loved the simplicity of the instrument. It felt like a gift. A new journey for a lifelong learner.

I dove into YouTube, thinking I could teach myself. I had no idea how vast—and overwhelming—it would be. Triads, modes, Travis picking, intervals, CAGED, fingerstyle. Even the Guitar Grimoire. At one point, I wondered if I needed spells and incantations just to keep up.

So I decided to get help.

The Lessons

I found an instructor who taught over Skype—smart guy, kind, structured. He had tabs, videos, and a clear system. I signed up for four lessons a month.

He started by evaluating where I was. I wasn’t a total beginner—I’d learned some chops from my YouTube binge—but I had no direction. That changed fast.

“Let’s learn pull-offs, hammer-ons, bends,” he said. “Here’s a short tune that has them all.” Then came pentatonic boxes. Double stops. It was exciting.

But I was falling behind.

Each week I’d try to play the last two assignments, and I’d choke. Badly. My fingers turned to stone. I felt embarrassed. Frustrated. I was learning—but not fast enough. And the self-criticism crept in.

I finally asked, “Can we switch to two lessons a month, just to give me more time?”

His answer: “No, Jim. That’s not my teaching model.”

And I quit. I think he knew it was coming.

I felt like I had failed. And as a former teacher myself, I knew what it felt like to lose a student. It stung on both sides.

Coming Back

I had to reset. To remember why I started.

I opened my case and played a fingerstyle piece he’d taught me. The sound and feel of the strings calmed me. This—this was the reason.

This was why I once filmed my infant son with “Here Comes the Sun” playing as the daylight spilled into his crib.

This wasn’t about performance. Or deadlines. Or perfection.

It was about joy.

I’m not back in college. I’m not on a career track with deliverables and KPIs. My kids are grown. I worked hard to reach this chapter of life.

At almost 68, my gift to myself is this: to become my own student. To breathe. To ease the tension in my shoulders. To love the sound of progress, no matter how slow it comes.

The Real Lesson

I’ll probably seek out another instructor eventually. But this time, I’ll ask better questions. Do they teach in a way that works for me? Can I grow here without shame?

Am I where I “should” be, three years in?

Yes. Because I’m still playing. Still showing up. And the guitar has taught me to be kinder to myself.

That is the real gift.

I may never play outside the walls of my home—but I do have a busking fantasy. A quiet dream of standing on a sidewalk with my hat on the ground, playing for the sun or the moon or whoever might pass by.

And each night, I finish my practice. Wipe down my strings. Close the latches of the case.

Click. Click.

And smile. Because I’m still here. Still playing.

And that’s enough.