Finding truth in dark harmonies

The beauty of minor notes

Photo by Uriel Soberanes on Unsplash

The night everything changed

The bass reverberated through my bones as I found myself in the middle of the dance floor, moving with an abandon I hadn’t felt in years. Earlier that evening, my friend, the DJ, had slipped something in my mouth as I nursed my beer — a gesture that would normally have sent my calculating mind into overdrive. But I was already so deep in my downward spiral that surrender felt like the only option.

Just months before, I had walked away from a year and a half of unpaid incentives at my corporate job. The decision to resign wasn’t just about leaving money on the table; it was about reclaiming time — eighteen months of hopes fed on promises that grew thinner by the day. My savings, carefully invested in what I thought were sure bets, had vanished like morning mist. And then, as if the universe had decided to orchestrate a perfect storm, my relationship crumbled, leaving me to face not just financial uncertainty but emotional devastation.

Yet here I was, in the pulsing heart of a nightclub, experiencing something unexpected: freedom. As the music washed over me, each beat seemed to strip away another layer of the identity I’d so carefully constructed — the successful corporate executive, the prudent investor, the perfect partner. In losing everything that I thought defined me, I was finding something else: the courage to fall.

I didn’t know it then, swaying under the strobe lights, but this moment marked the beginning of my transformation. Sometimes you have to hit the bottom of the pool to know which way is up.

Letting go of the dream

The fall, when it came, felt like flying. Strange how losing everything can feel like gaining wings. In my previous life, I was the very picture of success as society painted it — a corporate executive with a chauffeur-driven car, closing deals over fine dining, living what others called “the dream.” But dreams, I was learning, could be a form of sleepwalking.

They say — think before you jump. I jumped, and only then thought: oh wtf! To give up your identity, to release everything you’ve stood for over the years — looking back now, it seems like an act of courage, though I claim no credit. Perhaps I was just naïve. But then again, maybe ignorance truly is bliss sometimes. Because in that naïve leap, in that moment of not calculating every consequence, I found something I never could have planned for.

The change felt like falling with the speed of light. The designation that preceded my name, the shoes that carried me through office corridors, the conversations rehearsed and repeated in meeting rooms — all of it began to feel like costume pieces from a play I’d been performing rather than living.

What would people think? The question that had once governed my every move became a distant whisper. The fears of failure, of being laughed at, of becoming the cautionary tale at dinner parties — these concerns began to feel as insubstantial as shadows at noon.

Learning to listen

I began to see the beauty in the word ‘universe’ itself — ‘uni’ meaning one, ‘verse’ meaning song. While chasing quarterly targets, I had missed this simple truth: we’re all part of one giant melody, each of us playing our unique part.

Back when I played guitar, I learned something important about music: the most touching songs always had minor chords. Those darker, more complex harmonies gave depth to the bright major chords, created tension and release, and told stories of both joy and sorrow. Now I was beginning to understand how life worked the same way. The moments that seemed to be breaking me were breaking me open, adding depth to my song.

Even the hardest hits — the lost money, the failed relationship, the shattered plans — began to show their purpose. They weren’t punishments or bad luck, but essential notes in my melody. Life wasn’t working against me as I had thought; it was working through me, creating something far more beautiful than I could have planned.

Finding my own song

In my corporate days, I was a master of borrowed wisdom. I soundtracked my morning commute with Tony Robbins’ motivational crescendos, and I lined my office bookshelf with self-help books. I would stand before my team, confidently sharing these second-hand insights, teaching principles I had memorized but never truly lived. It was like learning to play music by reading about it rather than touching an instrument.

The voices in my head during my fall weren’t just society’s judgments — they were my fears, each one singing a different warning. Walking away from the well-worn path, I discovered, doesn’t just challenge your circumstances; it challenges your entire way of knowing. The road less travelled is less travelled precisely because it demands something rarer than courage: it demands genuine experience.

Now, when I look back at that night on the dance floor, I understand it differently. That moment wasn’t just an escape from my carefully constructed life — it was the first time I truly heard my own note in the universal symphony. In letting go of trying to play someone else’s song perfectly, I finally began to discover my own melody. And yes, it contained minor notes, moments of discord, and unexpected rhythms. But that’s what makes it real. That’s what makes it mine.

In music, as in life, perfection arises not from avoiding minor notes, but from how those notes resolve into something deeper than mere happiness.

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