You ever punish yourself for screwing up, only to realize later, that screw-up might have saved your life?
I’m talking about Bruce Springsteen.
Long-haired loner Bruce Springsteen.
High school graduation skipping loser Bruce Springsteen.
Concussion having military draft failing Bruce Springsteen.
Wait, what?
Bruce Springsteen’s first break didn’t come in music. It came when he failed his military exam during the Vietnam War draft. He’d had concussion from a motorcycle crash, and that concussion saved him from being shipped overseas… keeping him stateside, guitar in hand. That motorcycle screw up saved his life.
And it would change his life too. But first, he had to do something radical: he had to decide who on earth he was.
The year was 1968, and Bruce was playing cover songs in graveyard shifts at dive bars in a little coastal town in New Jersey. (I bet you know which one…)
Then came a call: a friend offered to introduce him to a big-time producer in Manhattan. Huge opportunity. The kind you don’t pass up.
But Bruce paused.
He took a long, hard look at himself.
And what he saw wasn’t good enough — yet.
He didn’t sing like Roy Orbison.
He didn’t shred like Jimi Hendrix.
And if he walked into that meeting trying to be a watered-down version of someone else, he’d blow it.
So he sat down at the piano. And he wrote.
And he wrote.
And he wrote — until he found what was real. What was his. He wrote until he found his voice.
Then, because he couldn’t take the piano with him, he borrowed a guitar from a friend and he bought a bus ticket. He slung the guitar over his shoulder without even a case, and he walked into that big deal producer’s office.
He was scared out of his mind.
So, he put his head down, and he played.
And he played.
And he played — until he found what was real. What was his. He played until he showed his voice.
And when he finally looked up, the producer said: “We need to make this album right now.”
That never would have happened if he kept on keeping on, being someone else, trying to sing like Roy or shred like Jimi… but just, you know, a worse version of them. We are best at being ourselves because it is where we are expert. It is what we know best.
And when we don’t do it, we deprive the world of our gifts.
It was in writing that album that Springsteen found his confidence in his own personal voice, his consonance. With Greetings from Asbury Park, he would shape a new sound in the industry, and launch a life of consequence.
We all want our lives to matter. We want our work to mean something.
But here’s what I know to be true this week: You don’t get to meaning without mess. You don’t get to consonance — that alignment between what you do and who you are — without a few missed notes along the way.
Failure isn’t the opposite of success.
It’s the thing that teaches you who you are.
It’s what clears the noise so your real voice can come through.
So, this week, I’m asking you:
Where are you still trying to be a knock-off version of someone else?
Where are you letting fear of failure keep you small, silent, safe?
And most importantly…
Where could you shine, if you stopped pretending and started owning what only you can do?
We may not all be Springsteen. But we all have a song to sing.
So grab your metaphorical guitar. Find your voice.
And get to work on that life of consequence.
Because the world?
It needs you — not a dimmed version. Not a safe version.
Just you, all in.
And if you haven’t yet, take a minute to answer these four questions — I’ll help you pinpoint which of the 4 C’s of consonance is missing from your life and what you can do about it.
