A Typical Day
I’m asleep, and it’s probably around 3 a.m. If I’m dreaming, it’s something gentle: being somewhere I love, doing something that feels like mine. I don’t really get anxiety dreams anymore. I used to—especially during full moons. In our old house, a skylight sat directly above the bed, and the moonlight would land on my face like a spotlight. I’d lie awake for hours with my heart racing.
But we moved in May, and this place feels different. It might end up being my favorite home we’ve ever had. The windows are huge, and the conservation land wraps around us like a quiet border. Outside the bedroom is a wetland that spent all spring and summer erupting with life. Tonight, everything is still—the soft hum of the humidifier, Louie snoring between Rebecca and me.
Because I managed to get to bed early, I’ll wake up before my alarm—around 5:15 a.m. My first thoughts of the day are never consistent. Sometimes it’s the hook from “Deja Vu” by Taemin because Ava plays it relentlessly in the car. Sometimes it’s: Is Rebecca sleeping okay? When do my implants need to be replaced? Are my hands numb from how I slept, or am I dying? I can’t die today—I have too much to do. My brain is dramatic before coffee.
I get out of bed and look outside. Even in the dark, I can see the silhouettes of three deer picking clover through the half-melted snow. Then the usual rhythm begins: brush teeth, wash face, scoop up the dog. Lou gives a small protest—soft whimpers, stubborn paws. If I leave him, he’ll wake Rebecca, so downstairs we go.
Routine matters to both of us. Lou gets three treats and lavish praise. I refill his food and water. He takes his joint medication with more enthusiasm than any actual treat, spinning like I’m serving five-star kibble. I drink a glass of water, take my meds, turn on the greatest coffee machine ever made, and make my Caramel Doppio. While it brews, I post my daily good morning on Instagram, skim emails, and glance at yesterday’s to-do list so I can start building today’s plan.
Once the coffee is ready, I sit at the living room table and start working. Some mornings I’m finishing a mix. Other mornings I’m sketching ideas for my own music or digging through admin tasks to keep the business upright. I love this time - before the world wakes up, before the noise starts. I used to put on the local news and work to weather reports. Now I’d rather use this time to make music.
At 7:30 a.m. I go upstairs to wake Ava for school. We do the familiar routine of coaxing and gentle reminders. When she’s moving, I tie up loose ends and drive her in. Back home, Rebecca is awake and soft-eyed, and we talk through the day for a few minutes. Then I head to the studio because I’ve got an attended mix session at 10.
Most of my work happens on a laptop now, which I love. I plug in the monitor, interfaces, and Thunderbolt bridge, and the entire studio comes online instantly. Speakers calibrated, reference tracks checked, room dialed in. I prep the session.
Today’s client is a local artist who records most of his own material. He arrives, we settle in, and get to work: listening, making notes, adjusting mixes, trading stories about what the songs mean to him. We have been mixing the record remotely for the last few weeks and today is to celebrate final touches. He asks about releasing the record, and I send my Dropbox of resources because I like being prepared for these conversations. Between tracks, I stretch, grab water, mental breaks.
When we wrap for the day, I crash for a few minutes. I lie down in the music room, scroll through email, check group chats and Discord, answer new inquiries, send dog memes, and set a timer for a 20-minute nap. When it goes off, I sit up, open the next project, and start mixing again. Now I have to pick up my daughter from school. A quick jaunt and I am back at home mixing.
By around 2:30 p.m., I’m back deep in it. Two more mixes to go.
What chain do I want on this kick? Do I keep the Bass DI or reamp it?
Hours disappear. When I finally look up, it’s 5:00 p.m., and the light outside is slipping toward evening. I make a list of what needs finishing tonight versus tomorrow morning.
By 5:30 p.m., I shut everything down and head upstairs to figure out dinner.
And that’s most days: simple, structured, and full of small shifts between care, work, noise, and quiet. It’s not dramatic, but it feels like the life I was trying to build all those years I was chasing something I couldn’t quite name: a rhythm where the people I love, the work I love, and the place I live all pull in the same direction. Even on the busiest days, there’s a steadiness to it. The best is yet to come, as they say.
