What the Olympics Taught Me About Devotion

Over the weekend, while traveling to visit family, I accidentally watched a lot of the Olympics.

“Accidentally” meaning — it was just on. And I stayed.

I haven’t watched the Olympics in years. Not for any particular reason. They just hadn’t crossed my path. But this time I found myself completely transfixed.

Holy crap.

It is absolutely insane what humans are capable of.

These are people operating in the top fraction of a percent of humanity. Professionals who have dedicated their lives — truly their lives — to something most of us would consider obscure.

I kept turning to my brother-in-law and asking, “How does someone even discover they’re good at something like curling?”

Not just good. World-class.

And then beyond that — how do they love it enough to give themselves to it? To wake up early. To fall. To lose. To repeat. For years.

The drone shots behind the bobsled and speed skating really put things into perspective. That’s where you can feel the speed. The danger. The razor-thin margins between victory and heartbreak.

They are superhuman.

But here’s what actually got me.

I teared up.

Not because of the gold medals.

But because I watched two downhill skiers finish their runs — both completely exhausted, having just given everything they had. The results flashed on the board. One rejoiced. The other was crushed.

And yet — they turned to each other and embraced.

Different countries. Different languages. Years of rivalry.

Mutual respect.

It hit me harder than I expected.

Because underneath all of the flags and national anthems and commentary, what I was actually witnessing was devotion.

Years of quiet, invisible devotion.

Devotion Is Invisible Most of the Time

We only see the podium moment.

We don’t see the 5:00am practices.
The injuries.
The self-doubt.
The repetition.
The years when no one was watching.

It made me think about craft in general.

About anyone who gives themselves to something long enough that it shapes who they are.

As I sat there watching, I felt something quietly familiar.

Not in an ego way.
Not in a “compare yourself to Olympians” way.

But in a “this is what dedication looks like” way.

I’ve been playing guitar since I was twelve years old.

Long before I could really play it.

Long before I understood scales or modes or tone or discipline.

I just knew I was drawn to it. To the way it felt in my hands. To the sound vibrating through wood and air.

I’ve been chasing sound ever since.

Recording in bedrooms.
Looping in Astoria apartments.
Sitting in front of speakers adjusting a reverb tail by half a decibel.
Vintage synths humming in the background.
Field recordings captured on walks.
Sessions where nothing worked.
Sessions where everything clicked.

No medals.
No podium.

But devotion all the same.

The Long Arc of Showing Up

When I think about it, I’ve dedicated my life to sound.

Not in a glamorous way.
In a consistent way.

The kind where you show up whether you feel inspired or not.
The kind where you keep refining your ear.
The kind where you move through burnout.
Through addiction.
Through grief.
Through doubt.

Two months ago today, our sweet Nala passed.

Time since then has felt both instantaneous and eternal.

My brain has been in survival mode.
Just getting through.

And yet — even in that fog — I’ve still shown up to the studio.

Not because I had to.
Not because of an algorithm.
But because it’s what I do.

It’s my craft. It’s my way of processing. It’s my version of training.

Devotion doesn’t always look dramatic.

Sometimes it looks like quietly sitting at a piano and letting one chord ring.
Sometimes it looks like scrapping a mix and starting over.
Sometimes it looks like releasing ambient music without expectation.

Respect for the Ones Who Show Up

Watching those athletes embrace each other reminded me of something simple:

When you’ve given yourself to something fully, you recognize that same dedication in others.

It’s not about winning.
It’s about the shared understanding of what it took to get there.

There’s something deeply human about that.

In a world that feels increasingly divided — politically, socially, digitally — I found myself unexpectedly moved by the simplicity of respect.

Different countries.
Different ideologies.
Same sacrifice.
Same discipline.
Same love of craft.

And it made me think about the creative community, too.

Every artist I admire — whether ambient composers, film scorers, modular synth explorers, or painters — has devoted their life to something intangible.

We may make wildly different sounds.
We may hold different beliefs.
But underneath it all is a shared devotion to making something honest.

We Are All Training For Something

Maybe not the Olympics.

But something.

Maybe it’s parenting.
Maybe it’s healing.
Maybe it’s sobriety.
Maybe it’s building a life aligned with your values.
Maybe it’s simply trying to be a decent human in a loud world.

I think what moved me most was remembering that beneath the noise, we are all training for something.

We are all trying.
We are all tired sometimes.
We are all giving more than people see.

And when we remember that, it becomes a little easier to extend grace.

To embrace instead of divide.
To respect instead of diminish.

Devotion Over Division

The Olympics didn’t make me patriotic.

They made me reflective.

They reminded me that dedication is sacred.
That craft is worthy.
That respect is powerful.

And they reminded me that even in grief, even in uncertainty, even in survival mode — I am still devoted to what I do.

Not because it makes me special.

But because it keeps me human.

And maybe that’s the point.

We are humans.
All going through things.
Trying to do our best.

And if we can meet each other there — in the shared understanding of effort — maybe we’ll be alright.

Returning Home: Reflections on Family and Self Through Sound

Spending time with family is never just about the visit—it’s about the history, the patterns, the quiet moments that stretch between conversations. It’s about returning to a version of yourself you thought you outgrew, only to realize how much of it still lives in you.

Lately, I’ve been reflecting on how being around family can be its own kind of meditation. There’s something about sitting across from your parents, seeing your mannerisms reflected back at you, hearing a familiar tone in someone else’s voice—and realizing, that’s me too.

The Mirror of Family

Being home—physically or emotionally—means stepping into an environment that shaped you. It can be comforting. It can be challenging. Often, it’s both. You catch glimpses of the traits you’ve carried forward: maybe a stubbornness, a certain way of handling stress, a deep sense of care. And then there are the things you’ve tried to unlearn, the parts you’re gently rewriting in yourself.

It’s not about judgment. It’s about awareness. Noticing the echoes of your upbringing in your adult self and asking, Do I want to keep this? Or do I want to shift it?

The Practice of Patience

Family dynamics aren’t always easy. Old stories resurface. Roles we thought we shed reappear without warning. But what I’ve learned is that these moments, though sometimes difficult, are invitations—to slow down, to respond rather than react, to extend the same compassion we offer to strangers back to the people who raised us.

In that way, being with family becomes a practice, one not so different from meditation: sit with it, breathe through it, notice what comes up, and let it move.

How Ambient Music Mirrors This Process

There’s a parallel for me in the ambient music I create as Six Missing. So much of ambient composition is about space, patience, and reflection. There’s no rush. No hard start or stop. Just the slow unfolding of texture, the subtle shifts that ask you to notice rather than chase.

Just like in family relationships, there’s room for tension and release, for moments of dissonance and deep harmony. Sometimes a single drone or melody line will repeat and shift so slightly that you don’t realize it’s changed until you’re fully immersed in something new.

Creating this kind of music has taught me to listen more closely, to be with what’s present without needing to fix it—a skill that’s just as important when navigating the nuances of family.

An Invitation to Reflect

If you’re spending time with family, or even just thinking about your roots, I invite you to approach it like you would a quiet piece of music:

• Pause. Notice what emotions arise.

• Listen for what’s beneath the surface. Not everything is loud or obvious.

• Allow space. Sometimes just being together is enough.

And if you need something to help ease into that reflective space, I’ve curated a playlist called Meditative Moments, full of ambient tracks that hold space for introspection, including subtle field recordings and gentle textures that mirror these emotional landscapes:

🎧 Follow & Save Meditative Moments

Whether you’re sitting with your parents at the kitchen table or alone with a memory, know that the process of noticing, reflecting, and evolving is sacred. And you don’t have to rush it.

Until next time,
Your fellow human just being.

• Six Missing

A blog.

So, you might ask yourself, “what is TJ doing writing a blog? Doesn’t he already do so much?” And the answer is well…I don’t know and…yes.

I thought it could be fun to start a longer form writing practice as I’ve found my newsletters can get a little wordy. But that’s the thing - I am so passionate about what I do and how I do it that I find it nearly impossible to condense it down to what are essentially bullet-pointed thoughts in a newsletter.

Alas, we’ve arrived at “the blog.”

I suppose you could say I missed the boat back in the early 2000s when everyone was blogging and writing posts - I think it would’ve probably helped me become more popular within the Instagram world earlier too had I done that. But I was too busy occupying myself with other things - namely music. Truthfully, I didn’t even really understand the purpose of Instagram when it first started. Share photos? Why? But very quickly the photos became a way to reach people and then people saw the power of that and figured out a way to upload videos. But then the videos could be used as a way to brand yourself and now you’re competing with actual brands so your videos had to get better; look better, sound better, be snappier. And now we’re making Reels and the trend is to make a 6 second reel, so on and so on…

It’s massively overwhelming being an artist, period. I don’t care what time you were or are one, it’s hard. Off the bat you’re a person who likely “feels” more than your average person so you’re acutely aware of human emotions, the human condition, nature, animals, all of it. Take that “feelingmachine” and drop it into a world where you have to advocate for yourself and your art 24 hours a day and you’ve got yourself quite the situation. But I actually love it. I love sharing my work and who I am and how I make my art. I truly enjoy hearing about the connections it makes with people and not in the self-stroking-ego way, but in the way that makes me feel truly good that I was able to drop some positivity into this chaotic world.

Here we are now. Coming back to the blog.

Is blogging more or less journaling? Maybe I’ll use it that way. There are already so many people out there using longform blogs as a way to catalogue their methods and work so I don’t feel the need to fill that void. Rather, I want to share more about who I am and the person that is behind my work. Perhaps you’ll find things that you connect with and say “hey, I feel that too!”

Okay, so. Blogging. Blogging.

Time see where this goes!