The Night I Almost Gave Up On Guitar
A borrowed guitar. A buried pain. And the moment everything changed.
by Matéo Habasque
I look at my guitar on its stand with skepticism. This is the time of day I usually pick it up and play. Lately, though, I’ve been struggling to find the motivation. Workdays are long and stressful, and I’m often drained. My mood has been low. On top of that, I’m stuck. I’ve been learning Enter Sandman by Metallica—by far the hardest song I’ve tackled. The chord transitions just won’t click, and I feel like I’m just spinning my wheels. Why waste another night wrestling with the same passage as yesterday?
Just as I’m about to give up and launch a video game, a memory surfaces—one that takes me back to the very first time I ever picked up a guitar.
My wife and I have just separated after five years together. She’s moved out, and I find myself alone in the house, in a remote part of France, far from my family and friends, with only my two cats for company. To top it off, I’m unemployed, with barely any savings. I’ve poured everything into that relationship and, in the process, lost sight of who I am as an individual. Alone, I feel empty. I have no idea who I am, what I can do, or what I even want.
Eventually, the loneliness gets too heavy. I decide to move back near my family in the southwest of France and find a job there. That’s when I start to think seriously about rebuilding myself—about who I want to become. I remember I’ve always wanted to play music. I consider learning the piano.
One night, while having drinks with my mom and her partner Nicolas, I mention the idea. Nicolas laughed and said he didn’t have a piano, but I was welcome to try his guitar. I wasn’t thrilled—guitar had always seemed intimidating. Still, I shrugged. “Yeah, why not.” He showed me a few sounds that didn’t hurt the ears too much. It was kind of fun. He told me I could borrow the guitar anytime.
The next evening, I figure I’ll give it another go. I didn’t have anything better to do. I grabbed Nicolas’s guitar, sat in front of my computer, and typed into YouTube: “how to play guitar.” I found a beginner tutorial that taught the basics. At the end, the instructor showed how to play a simplified version of the melody from “Zombie” by The Cranberries.
It was time to try. I placed my index and middle finger down on the A and D strings at the second fret and let my fingers strum. The moment I began, something shifted. The deep, melancholic tones vibrated through my body. As I grew more confident, I played louder. My fingers were clumsy, the notes uncertain, but even now it remains the most beautiful melody I’ve ever heard.
Each vibration dug into my heart, peeling back layer after layer of emotion I’d buried since the divorce—anger, resentment, regret, fear, loneliness. All of it poured out through my fingers. And once the darkness was unearthed, something else emerged:
Gratitude.
Gratitude for everyone I’d shared the road with, for what they gave me—the good and the bad. Gratitude for the hardships that could’ve broken me but instead shaped me. Gratitude for myself, for every time I’d dared to try, failed, and stood back up. My heart was filled with pure, unconditional love.
I stop only when my fingertips hurt too much to continue. A heavy silence settles over the room, leaving me exhausted but strangely uplifted.
In that moment, I knew I would keep playing. There were things I needed to express, things I wanted to share. I needed to hone my technique—not to be impressive, but to be honest. To turn my feelings into music. That night, I began a journey with no end.
The memory lingered—raw, beautiful, and grounding. It reconnected me to something I’d lost. When I snapped back to the present moment, I let out a quiet laugh. I’d been playing on autopilot for so long, I’d nearly forgotten why I started. I reach for my guitar and rest it on my thigh. But instead of working on Enter Sandman, I place my index and middle finger down on the A and D strings at the second fret… and let my fingers strum.
The image of staring skeptically at the guitar after a long, draining workday feels painfully familiar. Enter Sandman is an ambitious challenge, and recognizing when to take a break instead of treating slow progress as failure may be exactly what keeps the music enjoyable.
The image of staring skeptically at the guitar on its stand really captures how burnout can make even something you love feel like a chore. Enter Sandman is a tough challenge, so stepping back, slowing the transitions down, or taking a short break doesn’t mean giving up—it may be exactly what helps you get unstuck.
The image of staring skeptically at the guitar really captures how burnout can turn something enjoyable into another obligation. Enter Sandman is a tough choice for a plateau, so slowing down to celebrate one clean chord transition might make the next practice feel like progress again.
The combination of long, stressful workdays and getting stuck on Enter Sandman’s chord transitions sounds especially discouraging. I like the honesty in admitting that sometimes simply picking up the guitar feels like a struggle; those small, unproductive-feeling sessions can still be part of the process.
The combination of long, stressful workdays and wrestling with “Enter Sandman” sounds like a perfect recipe for frustration. Sometimes slowing down to isolate one stubborn chord transition is enough to turn a stalled practice session into a small win.
I really connected with the image of looking at the guitar on its stand after a long, stressful workday. Enter Sandman is a tough choice for a major challenge, and those stubborn chord transitions can make progress feel invisible—but sticking with small, focused practice sessions may help the breakthrough arrive.
The image of your guitar sitting on its stand while you debate picking it up feels painfully familiar. Enter Sandman is a tough benchmark, but recognizing when to slow down and focus on one chord transition at a time may be the reset that keeps frustration from turning into quitting.
The combination of long, stressful workdays and getting stuck on “Enter Sandman” sounds especially discouraging. I appreciate the honesty about staring at the guitar and questioning whether to pick it up—those frustrating plateaus are a real part of learning.
The combination of long, stressful workdays and getting stuck on “Enter Sandman” feels painfully familiar. Sometimes the best progress comes from putting the guitar down for one night, then returning with a smaller goal—like mastering just one chord transition.
The image of staring skeptically at the guitar after a long workday really captures how quickly practice can start feeling like another obligation. Enter Sandman is an ambitious challenge, so focusing on one stubborn chord transition at a time might make progress feel visible again.
The honesty about staring at the guitar and feeling skeptical really resonates, especially when work stress and low mood make even a familiar routine feel impossible. Enter Sandman is a tough benchmark, so recognizing that slow, frustrating progress still counts might be the encouragement needed to keep going.
The image of staring skeptically at the guitar really captures how burnout can make even a beloved hobby feel like another obligation. Enter Sandman is an ambitious choice, and sometimes slowing down to master one transition at a time is the progress that’s hardest to notice.
The image of staring skeptically at the guitar really captures how burnout can make even a beloved hobby feel like another obligation. Enter Sandman is an ambitious challenge, and sometimes slowing down to isolate those stubborn chord transitions is progress in disguise.
The combination of long, stressful workdays and being stuck on “Enter Sandman” sounds especially discouraging. I like the honesty in admitting that even looking at the guitar can feel difficult—sometimes taking a break is part of moving forward, not giving up.
The combination of long, stressful workdays and wrestling with Enter Sandman sounds like a brutal motivation trap. Sometimes slowing the song down or celebrating one clean chord transition is enough to make progress feel visible again.
The honesty about staring skeptically at the guitar after a long, stressful workday really resonates. Enter Sandman is an ambitious challenge, and recognizing that slow progress doesn’t mean wasted practice is an important reminder.
The combination of long, stressful workdays and getting stuck on “Enter Sandman” sounds genuinely discouraging. I like the honesty of looking at the guitar with skepticism—sometimes taking the pressure off and practicing just one chord transition can be enough to start moving again.
“Enter Sandman” sounds like a brutal benchmark when you’re already exhausted from work and feeling stuck. I like the honesty of questioning whether to pick up the guitar at all—it makes the struggle with those chord transitions feel very real.
The combination of long, stressful workdays and wrestling with Enter Sandman’s chord transitions sounds genuinely discouraging. I like that you captured the temptation to leave the guitar on its stand—those stuck, low-motivation periods are often part of learning difficult songs.
The part about staring at the guitar on the stand and feeling like you’re spinning wheels hit home—I’ve had nights where I’d rather do anything than pick it up. What finally helped me with stubborn chord changes was slowing down to a ridiculous tempo and just letting my fingers find the shape without strumming, almost like muscle memory meditation. Hang in there; the night it clicks makes up for all the frustrating ones.
The Enter Sandman chord transitions are a brutal wall—I remember feeling exactly that “spinning wheels” frustration when the verse riff just wouldn’t lock in after a long day. What finally broke it for me was slowing the metronome way down and playing just the transition between the F5 and G5 shapes for ten minutes straight, ignoring the rest of the song. Hope you stuck with it, because that moment it clicks is worth every drained evening.
That moment of staring at the guitar on its stand and feeling the weight of the day is so familiar. I hit the same wall with the pre-chorus riff in Enter Sandman — it took me a week of just playing the transition slowly before it clicked. Sometimes the best move is to put the guitar down for a night and come back with fresh ears.
That “spinning your wheels” feeling is the worst, especially when you know the song is within reach. I had the same issue with the verse-to-chorus transition in Enter Sandman — taking a two-day break from it was what finally made it click for me.
The part about the chord transitions in Enter Sandman really hit home—that main riff is deceptively simple until you actually try to switch cleanly. I’ve been there, and sometimes stepping away for a day or two is what finally makes the muscle memory click.
The Enter Sandman chord transitions are a real wall — I remember hitting that same plateau and putting the guitar down for a week. What finally helped me was slowing the metronome way down and just drilling the change between the verse and chorus until it felt boring.
The chord transitions in Enter Sandman are deceptively brutal — the riff sounds straightforward until you’re actually fighting to land each change cleanly. That “spinning wheels” feeling usually means you’re right at the edge of a breakthrough, not stuck for good.
I know exactly how that feels—I hit the same wall with the verse riff in “Enter Sandman” and put the guitar down for two weeks. What finally helped me was slowing the metronome way down and just drilling those transitions until my fingers stopped fighting me. Hang in there, that breakthrough moment is worth the grind.
Honestly, work has been super stressful lately with all the new projects my boss keeps piling on my desk every morning. I needed a way to just switch off my brain for a little bit before I started cooking dinner. I found Grey Eagle and it’s been a great little escape for me over the last few days. They have these generous loyalty points for people in Canada, and the variety of themes is just wild. It really helps me decompress and forget about all those annoying emails for a while.
This piece beautifully captures the transformative power of music and the journey of self-discovery through playing the guitar. Matéo Habasque’s heartfelt storytelling draws readers in, evoking deep emotions and reminding us of the healing potential found in creativity.
This piece beautifully captures the transformative power of music and the journey of self-discovery through playing the guitar. Matéo Habasque’s heartfelt storytelling draws readers in, evoking deep emotions and reminding us of the healing potential found in creativity.
Thank you for writing this wonderful story. I felt it. I understand it. And, I applaude you for your efforts.
Thank for the motovation.
Cheers,
Mavis