It’s so nice to be able to sit upright on my living room floor and just clear my head.

As I look around my apartment, everything seems to be in its place—each item serving a purpose in our daily life. There are a couple of loose items here and there, but the countertops are clear of clutter, and the space always feels clean. It allows us to recharge when we’re home.

This tranquility didn’t happen overnight. It comes from years of consistent practice and effort. I’ve come a long way—and thankfully, my wife had no trouble letting go of unnecessary items when we moved in together.

For me, though, there was a defining period during the peak of COVID. I’d finish meditating, open my eyes, and feel overwhelmed by a behemoth of a setup that I had spent years building—a dream studio I had aspired to create over decades. (Though for some of my music friends, “behemoth” might be a stretch.)

Synthesizers. Drum machines. Turntables. Records.

For most of my life, these objects represented freedom of self-expression. But gradually, they came to represent something else—a heavy tether to a painful past.

It shocked those who knew me when I started talking about selling it all. For a long time, I had found deep meaning in moments of silence and self-reflection. As those moments became more regular, I began to detach further, developing a growing unease about what all the gear symbolized.

I craved a more authentic connection with the world and the people in it. The music community I had long cherished no longer reflected where I was in life. I’m not shunning music or the people within that world, but some context might help.

As a teenager, I lost a very close friend—carrying his casket just two days after turning 15. It was 1994, a pivotal moment in electronic music, and I dove into that world headfirst as a form of self-prescribed therapy. But in truth, it wasn’t therapy—it was escape.

I DJ’d for years, immersing myself in underground culture. That path led me to Los Angeles, and eventually to San Francisco, where I found an open community that welcomed me for who I was. But over time, my inner compass shifted. Music was no longer about healing—it had become about partying. Slowly, the darker sides of the culture began to creep in.

And over the years, a little darkness can build into a lot. I was far from my original path.

Fast forward to 2018. I chose full sobriety. With clarity came the realization that I had never truly grieved my friend’s death. During COVID, I finally gave myself the space to explore that grief.

Through this deeper work, and aided by Buddhist teachings, I began to see music—and especially the gear—through new eyes. When I would say or hear, “Oh, I have that record” or “I’ve got that piece of gear,” I found myself cringing. It felt like ego masquerading as connection, and I no longer wanted to participate in that cycle.

Disclaimer: I fully acknowledge that many people have healthy, meaningful relationships with records and gear. This was just a part of my experience.

As I began processing my old pain, I also began letting go of the identity I had built around music. It wasn’t quick or easy, but over time I sold more than 1,000 records and around $15,000 worth of studio equipment. With each sale, I felt a little lighter. A little more free.

With more time and space, I started backpacking—spending far less money and gaining far more connection to the earth. Letting go of my music gear helped me reconnect with something far older and truer: the natural conditions of life.

Now, I can sit peacefully in my living room, with no reminders of the pain I once tried to bury. I faced my fears and shed the layers.

Today, my elaborate sound system consists of a smartphone and a small Bluetooth speaker. If an opportunity comes my way, I want to meet it without the emotional and physical baggage that once anchored me to the past. I don’t feel like I’m sacrificing a love—I’ve already let it go.

The weight has been lifted just enough to allow something new to take root. Right now, that path seems to lead toward nature.

But for today, I’m simply grateful to sit here, peacefully, and enjoy the moment.