The Sweetest Applause

What My Guitar Taught Me About Failure, Patience, and Showing Up
by Barth Montel

For years, I told my students, “It’s okay to mess up. That’s how we learn.”

They’d struggle with typing or math or spelling, and I’d coach them through the frustration with enthusiasm.
But one quiet evening, I realized I wasn’t living any of it.

My evenings were predictable. Comfortable. Stagnant. I preached growth and risk-taking all day… but at home, I played it safe.

That’s when my eyes landed on the small, dusty guitar leaning against the wall in my son Jesse’s room.
It had been his when he was little—a forgotten JB-36 with a laminate top and a few battle scars.
For years, it had just been there. A decoration. A relic.
But that night, it felt like a challenge.

I picked it up.

It felt light in my hands, but the strings were stiff, unfamiliar.
I strummed, and the sound was… awful.
Hilariously awful.
Like a yowling cat trapped in a shoebox.

And I grinned.
Because that was the moment I knew — I’m all in.

I’d found my discomfort. My challenge. My chance to finally practice what I preached.

I started carving out time in the mornings—just fifteen minutes. My fingers fumbled. My strumming was chaotic. My wife, Angela, would quietly excuse herself. My daughter, Elyse, would giggle.

But I kept at it.
I bought a chord chart.
Built calluses.
Played the same song ten, twenty, thirty times in a row.
Every day.

Doubt crept in often. I started wondering if some people just weren’t wired to play music.
But I never wanted to quit.
Each new chord was a puzzle. Each sour note, a clue.
The process was humbling—but strangely exhilarating.

After almost a year, Angela offered to buy me lessons. I reached out to every local teacher I could find—no one had openings that fit my schedule. I was stuck.

Then one night, I found Tony’s Acoustic Challenge online. The format, the energy, the testimonials—it all made sense. It felt like someone had designed this exact thing for people like me: people trying to find their rhythm late in life. I signed up.

And slowly, things started to change.

Tony’s lessons gave me structure. His mindset gave me permission.
Suddenly, “wrong notes” weren’t failures—they were feedback.
I’d flub a fingerpicking pattern, then laugh and think, Okay, that’s one way not to play it.
The important thing was showing up. Practicing. Being patient.

Progress came in flickers. A clean G chord. A melody that sounded like a song.
And then, a moment I’ll never forget.

One evening, I was in the living room, working through “Blackbird.”
Angela walked in and leaned against the doorframe. I kept playing.
When I finished, she smiled softly. “That was… nice,” she said.

One small word.
But it carried the weight of months of off-key flubs, sore fingers, and quiet commitment.

A few weeks later, I was practicing something fingerstyle when Elyse looked up from her homework.
“Dad,” she said, “can you play that part again? The one that sounds like a lullaby?”

My heart swelled.

My music wasn’t just noise anymore.
It was connection. It was emotion.
It was heard.

Now, I still mess up all the time.
There are days my fingers feel like sausages. My chords sound muddy.
But I show up. I keep playing.

That little guitar from Jesse’s room?
It started this.
It’s still here.
And every time I see it, I remember: the real growth happens just beyond our comfort zone.

When I tell my students that failure is a stepping stone, I mean it now.
My fingers—and the calluses on them—are proof.

Because sometimes, the sweetest applause isn’t from a crowd.
It’s a smile from your wife.
A quiet request from your daughter.

And the feeling that, finally, you’re living what you teach.