#retreat — Public Fediverse posts

WHEN LIFE INTERRUPTS THE MUSIC; Series 4

Returning With a Different Perspective

Sometimes, you return to the place you left, but you are no longer the person who left.

Coming Home With “Nothing”

I did not plan the return.

There was no carefully prepared timeline. No grand announcement. No sense that everything had worked out exactly as I had hoped.

It was sudden, unplanned, and, at the time, it felt almost like the end.

After a long period of labour and a series of unpleasant experiences, I found myself going back home with what, from the outside, looked like nothing.

No significant achievement to announce.

No great story of success. No evidence that things had gone according to plan.

Just me, returning home.

I remember the feeling.

There is a particular kind of disappointment that comes when reality does not resemble the picture you had imagined.

You leave home believing you are going to build something.

You worked, endured, and made sacrifices.

You keep hoping.

And then, unexpectedly, you find yourself coming back, wondering what exactly you have to show for the journey.

But something happened when I arrived home that I did not expect.

My Children Were There.

They were shocked.

Then excited.

My wife was happy to see me.

And in the middle of everything I had been carrying, something shifted.

For a moment, I wasn’t thinking about what I had lost.

I wasn’t thinking about what had gone wrong.

I wasn’t thinking about what I had hoped to accomplish.

I was simply home.

And there was a little joy in that.

It was not the kind of joy that solved every problem.

It did not suddenly change my circumstances.

But it reminded me of something I had perhaps allowed the pursuit of other things to overshadow:

There are things more valuable than the achievements we spend our lives chasing.

Sometimes, Coming Home Is Not Going Back

Before that experience, I might have looked at returning home as simply moving backwards.

But I began to see it differently.

I was not returning as the same person who had left.

I had experiences I did not have before.

I had been tested in ways I had not anticipated.

I had encountered uncertainty.

I had experienced rejection.

I had learned to function in unfamiliar circumstances.

I had discovered things about myself.

And perhaps most importantly, I had developed a different understanding of what really matters.

So although the return looked like a setback, I was carrying something home with me that could not be seen in a suitcase.

Perspective. Experience. Wisdom. Humility. Resilience.

And a deeper appreciation for family.

The Season Was Heavy

The months that followed were not easy. I was given one month notice to evacuation where I was staying with my family.

There were days of uncertainty. There were disappointments.

There were moments when rejection made me question what was next.

There were times when I had to confront the emotional weight of everything that had happened. My blood pressure rose up.

I also had to navigate other difficult personal seasons that affected me physically and emotionally.

There were moments when the pressure felt overwhelming. Some came from people who were supposed to encourage and support me at my down moment.

But somewhere along the way, I came to a realisation:

I am too loaded to give up now.

I don’t mean that life suddenly became easy. It didn’t.

I mean that I had accumulated too much experience, too many lessons, too much responsibility, too much love, too much purpose, and too much understanding to allow one difficult chapter to become the conclusion of my story.

I had people depending on me. I had people I had influenced. I had things I still wanted to contribute. I had lessons that had cost me something to learn.

And I began to understand that survival itself can sometimes be an act of courage.

My Perspective About Family Changed

Coming home changed the way I looked at family. Sometimes, we can become so focused on providing, achieving, building, and pursuing that we forget that the people we are building for are also part of the reward.

Coming home and seeing my children again reminded me that presence has value.

Not everything meaningful can be measured by income.

Not everything important can be displayed as an achievement.

Sometimes, sitting with your family after a difficult season is itself a victory.

My wife’s happiness at seeing me reminded me that partnership is not only about celebrating success together.

Sometimes, it is about having someone who is simply glad that you are home.

That changed something in me.

My Perspective About Music Changed

My relationship with music also changed. Before, I could easily think about music in terms of achievement, performance, growth, opportunities, and professional development.

But after everything I had experienced, music began to feel deeper.

I began to see it not merely as something I do, but as something through which I can serve, teach, communicate, influence, encourage, and connect with people.

I became more interested in the person behind the musician.

• What does music do to someone’s confidence?
• How does training shape discipline?
• How can a teacher help a young person discover potential?
• How can leadership develop people rather than simply produce performances?

These questions became more important to me.

My experiences had changed the questions I asked.

And sometimes, a change in the questions is evidence that growth has already begun.

My Perspective About Leadership Changed

Leadership also began to look different. I had previously thought a lot about building. Building teams. Building musicians. Building programmes. Building curriculums. Building platforms.

But difficult seasons taught me something about leadership that success cannot always teach:

People need leaders who understand what it means to struggle.

You cannot always lead from a position of strength.

Sometimes you lead while rebuilding.

Sometimes you encourage others while you are still finding your own footing.

Sometimes you have to admit that you don’t have all the answers.

Sometimes leadership is simply refusing to surrender your responsibility to hope.

That experience gave me greater empathy for people who are struggling silently.

I became less interested in judging people’s seasons and more interested in understanding them.

Rejection Does Not Have to Become Identity

One of the difficult things about rejection is that it can become personal.

An opportunity is rejected, and we begin to think we are rejected.

A plan fails, and we begin to think we are failures.

A door closes, and we begin to believe there are no more doors.

I had to learn to separate an experience from my identity.

A rejection is an event. It is not necessarily a definition.

A difficult season is a season. It is not necessarily a destination.

A failed plan is a failed plan. It does not automatically mean a failed person.

That distinction became important as I began rebuilding.

I Had to Learn to Live Without Having Everything Figured Out

There is a pressure many adults carry—the pressure to know what comes next.

We want the plan, the timeline, the certainty, the answer.

But life does not always give us those things. Sometimes you have to take the next step without seeing the entire road.

That was one of the lessons this season taught me.

I could not control everything that had happened.

I could not immediately control what would happen next.

But I could control how I responded.

I could keep learning, working, showing up, loving my family, developing people, keep creating and believing that the story was not finished.

That was enough for the next step.

I Came Back, But I Did Not Come Back Empty

This is perhaps the biggest lesson of this chapter.

I initially thought I was coming home with “nothing”

But I eventually realised I was carrying a lot.

I came back with experience. I came back with stories. I came back with lessons.

I came back with a deeper appreciation for family.

I came back with a different understanding of leadership.

I came back with a broader perspective on people.

I came back with greater resilience.

I came back with a clearer understanding of what matters.

And I came back with a renewed appreciation for the gift of music.

Perhaps I did not return with everything I wanted.

But I returned with something I needed:

Perspective.

The Person Who Left Is Not the Person Who Returned

This is what I want to emphasize most.

Sometimes we define success by what we bring back.

The money. The position. The certificate. The business. The opportunity. The achievement.

But perhaps we should also ask:

Who did the journey make you?

Because sometimes, you return with fewer possessions but greater wisdom.

You return with fewer answers but better questions.

You return with fewer plans but greater clarity.

You return with less certainty but greater resilience.

You return thinking you have lost something, only to discover that you have gained a deeper understanding of yourself.

That was my experience.

And Now, Another Birthday

As I celebrate my birthday today, October 5, I find myself reflecting differently on the journey.

I don’t want to pretend that I have arrived. I haven’t. There are still things I am working toward.

There are still questions I don’t have answers to.

There are still areas of my life that require growth.

There are still dreams waiting for expression.

But I can say one thing with honesty:

I am not the same person I used to be.

And perhaps that is worth celebrating.

Not because everything is perfect. Not because every prayer has been answered. Not because every plan has worked.

But because I am still here. Still learning. Still building. Still loving. Still teaching. Still creating. Still dreaming. Still becoming.

I May Not Be There Yet

I have learned to appreciate this sentence:

“I may not be there yet.”

There is humility in it.

But there is also hope. It means I recognise the distance between where I am and where I want to be.

It means I refuse to pretend.

But it also means I haven’t given up.

I may not be where I thought I would be by now.

But I am not where I used to be. And that matters.

Growth is not always dramatic. Sometimes it is simply becoming more intentional, more patient, more aware, more grateful, more resilient, more responsible, more compassionate, more willing to learn, more comfortable with the process.

The Lesson I Carry Forward

If the past few years have taught me anything, it is this:

Life can interrupt your plans without destroying your purpose.

You can lose an opportunity and still find yourself.

You can return home and still move forward.

You can experience rejection and still have value.

You can go through an unfamiliar season and still develop capacity.

You can feel like you have nothing and still be carrying something priceless.

And sometimes, the person who emerges from the difficult season is better equipped for the next chapter than the person who entered it.

“Sometimes, returning is not going back. It is coming home with a perspective that only the journey could have given you.”— Victor Adenola

A Reflection for You

Perhaps you are also in a season that doesn’t look like what you planned.

Maybe you have had to return.

Maybe something you built has ended.

Maybe an opportunity didn’t work out.

Maybe you have experienced rejection.

Maybe you are rebuilding.

Maybe you feel as though you have very little to show for the years you have invested.

Please don’t be too quick to measure your life only by what you can show.

Ask yourself:

• What has the journey built inside me?
• What have I learned?
• How have I changed?
• What capacity have I developed?
• Who have I become?
• Who have I influenced?
• What do I understand now that I didn’t understand before?

Because sometimes, the greatest evidence that a season was not wasted is not what you acquired. It is who you became.

And as I celebrate another year, that is where I find some of my gratitude.

I may not be where I want to be.

But I am not where I used to be.

And I am still becoming.

Coming Next — Series 5: When the Music Plays Again

After the pause, the interruption, the unfamiliar season, the ending, the return, and the lessons, one question remains:

What happens when you are ready to play again?

Perhaps the goal is not to recreate the music exactly as it was before.

Perhaps the next movement requires everything the journey has taught you.

In Series 5, I reflect on new beginnings, intentionality, purpose, family, music, and the courage to begin again—not as the person you were, but as the person you have become.

WHEN LIFE INTERRUPTS THE MUSIC; Series 4

Returning With a Different Perspective

Sometimes, you return to the place you left, but you are no longer the person who left.

Coming Home With “Nothing”

I did not plan the return.

There was no carefully prepared timeline. No grand announcement. No sense that everything had worked out exactly as I had hoped.

It was sudden, unplanned, and, at the time, it felt almost like the end.

After a long period of labour and a series of unpleasant experiences, I found myself going back home with what, from the outside, looked like nothing.

No significant achievement to announce.

No great story of success. No evidence that things had gone according to plan.

Just me, returning home.

I remember the feeling.

There is a particular kind of disappointment that comes when reality does not resemble the picture you had imagined.

You leave home believing you are going to build something.

You worked, endured, and made sacrifices.

You keep hoping.

And then, unexpectedly, you find yourself coming back, wondering what exactly you have to show for the journey.

But something happened when I arrived home that I did not expect.

My Children Were There.

They were shocked.

Then excited.

My wife was happy to see me.

And in the middle of everything I had been carrying, something shifted.

For a moment, I wasn’t thinking about what I had lost.

I wasn’t thinking about what had gone wrong.

I wasn’t thinking about what I had hoped to accomplish.

I was simply home.

And there was a little joy in that.

It was not the kind of joy that solved every problem.

It did not suddenly change my circumstances.

But it reminded me of something I had perhaps allowed the pursuit of other things to overshadow:

There are things more valuable than the achievements we spend our lives chasing.

Sometimes, Coming Home Is Not Going Back

Before that experience, I might have looked at returning home as simply moving backwards.

But I began to see it differently.

I was not returning as the same person who had left.

I had experiences I did not have before.

I had been tested in ways I had not anticipated.

I had encountered uncertainty.

I had experienced rejection.

I had learned to function in unfamiliar circumstances.

I had discovered things about myself.

And perhaps most importantly, I had developed a different understanding of what really matters.

So although the return looked like a setback, I was carrying something home with me that could not be seen in a suitcase.

Perspective. Experience. Wisdom. Humility. Resilience.

And a deeper appreciation for family.

The Season Was Heavy

The months that followed were not easy. I was given one month notice to evacuation where I was staying with my family.

There were days of uncertainty. There were disappointments.

There were moments when rejection made me question what was next.

There were times when I had to confront the emotional weight of everything that had happened. My blood pressure rose up.

I also had to navigate other difficult personal seasons that affected me physically and emotionally.

There were moments when the pressure felt overwhelming. Some came from people who were supposed to encourage and support me at my down moment.

But somewhere along the way, I came to a realisation:

I am too loaded to give up now.

I don’t mean that life suddenly became easy. It didn’t.

I mean that I had accumulated too much experience, too many lessons, too much responsibility, too much love, too much purpose, and too much understanding to allow one difficult chapter to become the conclusion of my story.

I had people depending on me. I had people I had influenced. I had things I still wanted to contribute. I had lessons that had cost me something to learn.

And I began to understand that survival itself can sometimes be an act of courage.

My Perspective About Family Changed

Coming home changed the way I looked at family. Sometimes, we can become so focused on providing, achieving, building, and pursuing that we forget that the people we are building for are also part of the reward.

Coming home and seeing my children again reminded me that presence has value.

Not everything meaningful can be measured by income.

Not everything important can be displayed as an achievement.

Sometimes, sitting with your family after a difficult season is itself a victory.

My wife’s happiness at seeing me reminded me that partnership is not only about celebrating success together.

Sometimes, it is about having someone who is simply glad that you are home.

That changed something in me.

My Perspective About Music Changed

My relationship with music also changed. Before, I could easily think about music in terms of achievement, performance, growth, opportunities, and professional development.

But after everything I had experienced, music began to feel deeper.

I began to see it not merely as something I do, but as something through which I can serve, teach, communicate, influence, encourage, and connect with people.

I became more interested in the person behind the musician.

• What does music do to someone’s confidence?
• How does training shape discipline?
• How can a teacher help a young person discover potential?
• How can leadership develop people rather than simply produce performances?

These questions became more important to me.

My experiences had changed the questions I asked.

And sometimes, a change in the questions is evidence that growth has already begun.

My Perspective About Leadership Changed

Leadership also began to look different. I had previously thought a lot about building. Building teams. Building musicians. Building programmes. Building curriculums. Building platforms.

But difficult seasons taught me something about leadership that success cannot always teach:

People need leaders who understand what it means to struggle.

You cannot always lead from a position of strength.

Sometimes you lead while rebuilding.

Sometimes you encourage others while you are still finding your own footing.

Sometimes you have to admit that you don’t have all the answers.

Sometimes leadership is simply refusing to surrender your responsibility to hope.

That experience gave me greater empathy for people who are struggling silently.

I became less interested in judging people’s seasons and more interested in understanding them.

Rejection Does Not Have to Become Identity

One of the difficult things about rejection is that it can become personal.

An opportunity is rejected, and we begin to think we are rejected.

A plan fails, and we begin to think we are failures.

A door closes, and we begin to believe there are no more doors.

I had to learn to separate an experience from my identity.

A rejection is an event. It is not necessarily a definition.

A difficult season is a season. It is not necessarily a destination.

A failed plan is a failed plan. It does not automatically mean a failed person.

That distinction became important as I began rebuilding.

I Had to Learn to Live Without Having Everything Figured Out

There is a pressure many adults carry—the pressure to know what comes next.

We want the plan, the timeline, the certainty, the answer.

But life does not always give us those things. Sometimes you have to take the next step without seeing the entire road.

That was one of the lessons this season taught me.

I could not control everything that had happened.

I could not immediately control what would happen next.

But I could control how I responded.

I could keep learning, working, showing up, loving my family, developing people, keep creating and believing that the story was not finished.

That was enough for the next step.

I Came Back, But I Did Not Come Back Empty

This is perhaps the biggest lesson of this chapter.

I initially thought I was coming home with “nothing”

But I eventually realised I was carrying a lot.

I came back with experience. I came back with stories. I came back with lessons.

I came back with a deeper appreciation for family.

I came back with a different understanding of leadership.

I came back with a broader perspective on people.

I came back with greater resilience.

I came back with a clearer understanding of what matters.

And I came back with a renewed appreciation for the gift of music.

Perhaps I did not return with everything I wanted.

But I returned with something I needed:

Perspective.

The Person Who Left Is Not the Person Who Returned

This is what I want to emphasize most.

Sometimes we define success by what we bring back.

The money. The position. The certificate. The business. The opportunity. The achievement.

But perhaps we should also ask:

Who did the journey make you?

Because sometimes, you return with fewer possessions but greater wisdom.

You return with fewer answers but better questions.

You return with fewer plans but greater clarity.

You return with less certainty but greater resilience.

You return thinking you have lost something, only to discover that you have gained a deeper understanding of yourself.

That was my experience.

And Now, Another Birthday

As I celebrate my birthday today, October 5, I find myself reflecting differently on the journey.

I don’t want to pretend that I have arrived. I haven’t. There are still things I am working toward.

There are still questions I don’t have answers to.

There are still areas of my life that require growth.

There are still dreams waiting for expression.

But I can say one thing with honesty:

I am not the same person I used to be.

And perhaps that is worth celebrating.

Not because everything is perfect. Not because every prayer has been answered. Not because every plan has worked.

But because I am still here. Still learning. Still building. Still loving. Still teaching. Still creating. Still dreaming. Still becoming.

I May Not Be There Yet

I have learned to appreciate this sentence:

“I may not be there yet.”

There is humility in it.

But there is also hope. It means I recognise the distance between where I am and where I want to be.

It means I refuse to pretend.

But it also means I haven’t given up.

I may not be where I thought I would be by now.

But I am not where I used to be. And that matters.

Growth is not always dramatic. Sometimes it is simply becoming more intentional, more patient, more aware, more grateful, more resilient, more responsible, more compassionate, more willing to learn, more comfortable with the process.

The Lesson I Carry Forward

If the past few years have taught me anything, it is this:

Life can interrupt your plans without destroying your purpose.

You can lose an opportunity and still find yourself.

You can return home and still move forward.

You can experience rejection and still have value.

You can go through an unfamiliar season and still develop capacity.

You can feel like you have nothing and still be carrying something priceless.

And sometimes, the person who emerges from the difficult season is better equipped for the next chapter than the person who entered it.

“Sometimes, returning is not going back. It is coming home with a perspective that only the journey could have given you.”— Victor Adenola

A Reflection for You

Perhaps you are also in a season that doesn’t look like what you planned.

Maybe you have had to return.

Maybe something you built has ended.

Maybe an opportunity didn’t work out.

Maybe you have experienced rejection.

Maybe you are rebuilding.

Maybe you feel as though you have very little to show for the years you have invested.

Please don’t be too quick to measure your life only by what you can show.

Ask yourself:

• What has the journey built inside me?
• What have I learned?
• How have I changed?
• What capacity have I developed?
• Who have I become?
• Who have I influenced?
• What do I understand now that I didn’t understand before?

Because sometimes, the greatest evidence that a season was not wasted is not what you acquired. It is who you became.

And as I celebrate another year, that is where I find some of my gratitude.

I may not be where I want to be.

But I am not where I used to be.

And I am still becoming.

Coming Next — Series 5: When the Music Plays Again

After the pause, the interruption, the unfamiliar season, the ending, the return, and the lessons, one question remains:

What happens when you are ready to play again?

Perhaps the goal is not to recreate the music exactly as it was before.

Perhaps the next movement requires everything the journey has taught you.

In Series 5, I reflect on new beginnings, intentionality, purpose, family, music, and the courage to begin again—not as the person you were, but as the person you have become.

WHEN LIFE INTERRUPTS THE MUSIC; Series 4

Returning With a Different Perspective

Sometimes, you return to the place you left, but you are no longer the person who left.

Coming Home With “Nothing”

I did not plan the return.

There was no carefully prepared timeline. No grand announcement. No sense that everything had worked out exactly as I had hoped.

It was sudden, unplanned, and, at the time, it felt almost like the end.

After a long period of labour and a series of unpleasant experiences, I found myself going back home with what, from the outside, looked like nothing.

No significant achievement to announce.

No great story of success. No evidence that things had gone according to plan.

Just me, returning home.

I remember the feeling.

There is a particular kind of disappointment that comes when reality does not resemble the picture you had imagined.

You leave home believing you are going to build something.

You worked, endured, and made sacrifices.

You keep hoping.

And then, unexpectedly, you find yourself coming back, wondering what exactly you have to show for the journey.

But something happened when I arrived home that I did not expect.

My Children Were There.

They were shocked.

Then excited.

My wife was happy to see me.

And in the middle of everything I had been carrying, something shifted.

For a moment, I wasn’t thinking about what I had lost.

I wasn’t thinking about what had gone wrong.

I wasn’t thinking about what I had hoped to accomplish.

I was simply home.

And there was a little joy in that.

It was not the kind of joy that solved every problem.

It did not suddenly change my circumstances.

But it reminded me of something I had perhaps allowed the pursuit of other things to overshadow:

There are things more valuable than the achievements we spend our lives chasing.

Sometimes, Coming Home Is Not Going Back

Before that experience, I might have looked at returning home as simply moving backwards.

But I began to see it differently.

I was not returning as the same person who had left.

I had experiences I did not have before.

I had been tested in ways I had not anticipated.

I had encountered uncertainty.

I had experienced rejection.

I had learned to function in unfamiliar circumstances.

I had discovered things about myself.

And perhaps most importantly, I had developed a different understanding of what really matters.

So although the return looked like a setback, I was carrying something home with me that could not be seen in a suitcase.

Perspective. Experience. Wisdom. Humility. Resilience.

And a deeper appreciation for family.

The Season Was Heavy

The months that followed were not easy. I was given one month notice to evacuation where I was staying with my family.

There were days of uncertainty. There were disappointments.

There were moments when rejection made me question what was next.

There were times when I had to confront the emotional weight of everything that had happened. My blood pressure rose up.

I also had to navigate other difficult personal seasons that affected me physically and emotionally.

There were moments when the pressure felt overwhelming. Some came from people who were supposed to encourage and support me at my down moment.

But somewhere along the way, I came to a realisation:

I am too loaded to give up now.

I don’t mean that life suddenly became easy. It didn’t.

I mean that I had accumulated too much experience, too many lessons, too much responsibility, too much love, too much purpose, and too much understanding to allow one difficult chapter to become the conclusion of my story.

I had people depending on me. I had people I had influenced. I had things I still wanted to contribute. I had lessons that had cost me something to learn.

And I began to understand that survival itself can sometimes be an act of courage.

My Perspective About Family Changed

Coming home changed the way I looked at family. Sometimes, we can become so focused on providing, achieving, building, and pursuing that we forget that the people we are building for are also part of the reward.

Coming home and seeing my children again reminded me that presence has value.

Not everything meaningful can be measured by income.

Not everything important can be displayed as an achievement.

Sometimes, sitting with your family after a difficult season is itself a victory.

My wife’s happiness at seeing me reminded me that partnership is not only about celebrating success together.

Sometimes, it is about having someone who is simply glad that you are home.

That changed something in me.

My Perspective About Music Changed

My relationship with music also changed. Before, I could easily think about music in terms of achievement, performance, growth, opportunities, and professional development.

But after everything I had experienced, music began to feel deeper.

I began to see it not merely as something I do, but as something through which I can serve, teach, communicate, influence, encourage, and connect with people.

I became more interested in the person behind the musician.

• What does music do to someone’s confidence?
• How does training shape discipline?
• How can a teacher help a young person discover potential?
• How can leadership develop people rather than simply produce performances?

These questions became more important to me.

My experiences had changed the questions I asked.

And sometimes, a change in the questions is evidence that growth has already begun.

My Perspective About Leadership Changed

Leadership also began to look different. I had previously thought a lot about building. Building teams. Building musicians. Building programmes. Building curriculums. Building platforms.

But difficult seasons taught me something about leadership that success cannot always teach:

People need leaders who understand what it means to struggle.

You cannot always lead from a position of strength.

Sometimes you lead while rebuilding.

Sometimes you encourage others while you are still finding your own footing.

Sometimes you have to admit that you don’t have all the answers.

Sometimes leadership is simply refusing to surrender your responsibility to hope.

That experience gave me greater empathy for people who are struggling silently.

I became less interested in judging people’s seasons and more interested in understanding them.

Rejection Does Not Have to Become Identity

One of the difficult things about rejection is that it can become personal.

An opportunity is rejected, and we begin to think we are rejected.

A plan fails, and we begin to think we are failures.

A door closes, and we begin to believe there are no more doors.

I had to learn to separate an experience from my identity.

A rejection is an event. It is not necessarily a definition.

A difficult season is a season. It is not necessarily a destination.

A failed plan is a failed plan. It does not automatically mean a failed person.

That distinction became important as I began rebuilding.

I Had to Learn to Live Without Having Everything Figured Out

There is a pressure many adults carry—the pressure to know what comes next.

We want the plan, the timeline, the certainty, the answer.

But life does not always give us those things. Sometimes you have to take the next step without seeing the entire road.

That was one of the lessons this season taught me.

I could not control everything that had happened.

I could not immediately control what would happen next.

But I could control how I responded.

I could keep learning, working, showing up, loving my family, developing people, keep creating and believing that the story was not finished.

That was enough for the next step.

I Came Back, But I Did Not Come Back Empty

This is perhaps the biggest lesson of this chapter.

I initially thought I was coming home with “nothing”

But I eventually realised I was carrying a lot.

I came back with experience. I came back with stories. I came back with lessons.

I came back with a deeper appreciation for family.

I came back with a different understanding of leadership.

I came back with a broader perspective on people.

I came back with greater resilience.

I came back with a clearer understanding of what matters.

And I came back with a renewed appreciation for the gift of music.

Perhaps I did not return with everything I wanted.

But I returned with something I needed:

Perspective.

The Person Who Left Is Not the Person Who Returned

This is what I want to emphasize most.

Sometimes we define success by what we bring back.

The money. The position. The certificate. The business. The opportunity. The achievement.

But perhaps we should also ask:

Who did the journey make you?

Because sometimes, you return with fewer possessions but greater wisdom.

You return with fewer answers but better questions.

You return with fewer plans but greater clarity.

You return with less certainty but greater resilience.

You return thinking you have lost something, only to discover that you have gained a deeper understanding of yourself.

That was my experience.

And Now, Another Birthday

As I celebrate my birthday today, October 5, I find myself reflecting differently on the journey.

I don’t want to pretend that I have arrived. I haven’t. There are still things I am working toward.

There are still questions I don’t have answers to.

There are still areas of my life that require growth.

There are still dreams waiting for expression.

But I can say one thing with honesty:

I am not the same person I used to be.

And perhaps that is worth celebrating.

Not because everything is perfect. Not because every prayer has been answered. Not because every plan has worked.

But because I am still here. Still learning. Still building. Still loving. Still teaching. Still creating. Still dreaming. Still becoming.

I May Not Be There Yet

I have learned to appreciate this sentence:

“I may not be there yet.”

There is humility in it.

But there is also hope. It means I recognise the distance between where I am and where I want to be.

It means I refuse to pretend.

But it also means I haven’t given up.

I may not be where I thought I would be by now.

But I am not where I used to be. And that matters.

Growth is not always dramatic. Sometimes it is simply becoming more intentional, more patient, more aware, more grateful, more resilient, more responsible, more compassionate, more willing to learn, more comfortable with the process.

The Lesson I Carry Forward

If the past few years have taught me anything, it is this:

Life can interrupt your plans without destroying your purpose.

You can lose an opportunity and still find yourself.

You can return home and still move forward.

You can experience rejection and still have value.

You can go through an unfamiliar season and still develop capacity.

You can feel like you have nothing and still be carrying something priceless.

And sometimes, the person who emerges from the difficult season is better equipped for the next chapter than the person who entered it.

“Sometimes, returning is not going back. It is coming home with a perspective that only the journey could have given you.”— Victor Adenola

A Reflection for You

Perhaps you are also in a season that doesn’t look like what you planned.

Maybe you have had to return.

Maybe something you built has ended.

Maybe an opportunity didn’t work out.

Maybe you have experienced rejection.

Maybe you are rebuilding.

Maybe you feel as though you have very little to show for the years you have invested.

Please don’t be too quick to measure your life only by what you can show.

Ask yourself:

• What has the journey built inside me?
• What have I learned?
• How have I changed?
• What capacity have I developed?
• Who have I become?
• Who have I influenced?
• What do I understand now that I didn’t understand before?

Because sometimes, the greatest evidence that a season was not wasted is not what you acquired. It is who you became.

And as I celebrate another year, that is where I find some of my gratitude.

I may not be where I want to be.

But I am not where I used to be.

And I am still becoming.

Coming Next — Series 5: When the Music Plays Again

After the pause, the interruption, the unfamiliar season, the ending, the return, and the lessons, one question remains:

What happens when you are ready to play again?

Perhaps the goal is not to recreate the music exactly as it was before.

Perhaps the next movement requires everything the journey has taught you.

In Series 5, I reflect on new beginnings, intentionality, purpose, family, music, and the courage to begin again—not as the person you were, but as the person you have become.

WHEN LIFE INTERRUPTS THE MUSIC; Series 4

Returning With a Different Perspective

Sometimes, you return to the place you left, but you are no longer the person who left.

Coming Home With “Nothing”

I did not plan the return.

There was no carefully prepared timeline. No grand announcement. No sense that everything had worked out exactly as I had hoped.

It was sudden, unplanned, and, at the time, it felt almost like the end.

After a long period of labour and a series of unpleasant experiences, I found myself going back home with what, from the outside, looked like nothing.

No significant achievement to announce.

No great story of success. No evidence that things had gone according to plan.

Just me, returning home.

I remember the feeling.

There is a particular kind of disappointment that comes when reality does not resemble the picture you had imagined.

You leave home believing you are going to build something.

You worked, endured, and made sacrifices.

You keep hoping.

And then, unexpectedly, you find yourself coming back, wondering what exactly you have to show for the journey.

But something happened when I arrived home that I did not expect.

My Children Were There.

They were shocked.

Then excited.

My wife was happy to see me.

And in the middle of everything I had been carrying, something shifted.

For a moment, I wasn’t thinking about what I had lost.

I wasn’t thinking about what had gone wrong.

I wasn’t thinking about what I had hoped to accomplish.

I was simply home.

And there was a little joy in that.

It was not the kind of joy that solved every problem.

It did not suddenly change my circumstances.

But it reminded me of something I had perhaps allowed the pursuit of other things to overshadow:

There are things more valuable than the achievements we spend our lives chasing.

Sometimes, Coming Home Is Not Going Back

Before that experience, I might have looked at returning home as simply moving backwards.

But I began to see it differently.

I was not returning as the same person who had left.

I had experiences I did not have before.

I had been tested in ways I had not anticipated.

I had encountered uncertainty.

I had experienced rejection.

I had learned to function in unfamiliar circumstances.

I had discovered things about myself.

And perhaps most importantly, I had developed a different understanding of what really matters.

So although the return looked like a setback, I was carrying something home with me that could not be seen in a suitcase.

Perspective. Experience. Wisdom. Humility. Resilience.

And a deeper appreciation for family.

The Season Was Heavy

The months that followed were not easy. I was given one month notice to evacuation where I was staying with my family.

There were days of uncertainty. There were disappointments.

There were moments when rejection made me question what was next.

There were times when I had to confront the emotional weight of everything that had happened. My blood pressure rose up.

I also had to navigate other difficult personal seasons that affected me physically and emotionally.

There were moments when the pressure felt overwhelming. Some came from people who were supposed to encourage and support me at my down moment.

But somewhere along the way, I came to a realisation:

I am too loaded to give up now.

I don’t mean that life suddenly became easy. It didn’t.

I mean that I had accumulated too much experience, too many lessons, too much responsibility, too much love, too much purpose, and too much understanding to allow one difficult chapter to become the conclusion of my story.

I had people depending on me. I had people I had influenced. I had things I still wanted to contribute. I had lessons that had cost me something to learn.

And I began to understand that survival itself can sometimes be an act of courage.

My Perspective About Family Changed

Coming home changed the way I looked at family. Sometimes, we can become so focused on providing, achieving, building, and pursuing that we forget that the people we are building for are also part of the reward.

Coming home and seeing my children again reminded me that presence has value.

Not everything meaningful can be measured by income.

Not everything important can be displayed as an achievement.

Sometimes, sitting with your family after a difficult season is itself a victory.

My wife’s happiness at seeing me reminded me that partnership is not only about celebrating success together.

Sometimes, it is about having someone who is simply glad that you are home.

That changed something in me.

My Perspective About Music Changed

My relationship with music also changed. Before, I could easily think about music in terms of achievement, performance, growth, opportunities, and professional development.

But after everything I had experienced, music began to feel deeper.

I began to see it not merely as something I do, but as something through which I can serve, teach, communicate, influence, encourage, and connect with people.

I became more interested in the person behind the musician.

• What does music do to someone’s confidence?
• How does training shape discipline?
• How can a teacher help a young person discover potential?
• How can leadership develop people rather than simply produce performances?

These questions became more important to me.

My experiences had changed the questions I asked.

And sometimes, a change in the questions is evidence that growth has already begun.

My Perspective About Leadership Changed

Leadership also began to look different. I had previously thought a lot about building. Building teams. Building musicians. Building programmes. Building curriculums. Building platforms.

But difficult seasons taught me something about leadership that success cannot always teach:

People need leaders who understand what it means to struggle.

You cannot always lead from a position of strength.

Sometimes you lead while rebuilding.

Sometimes you encourage others while you are still finding your own footing.

Sometimes you have to admit that you don’t have all the answers.

Sometimes leadership is simply refusing to surrender your responsibility to hope.

That experience gave me greater empathy for people who are struggling silently.

I became less interested in judging people’s seasons and more interested in understanding them.

Rejection Does Not Have to Become Identity

One of the difficult things about rejection is that it can become personal.

An opportunity is rejected, and we begin to think we are rejected.

A plan fails, and we begin to think we are failures.

A door closes, and we begin to believe there are no more doors.

I had to learn to separate an experience from my identity.

A rejection is an event. It is not necessarily a definition.

A difficult season is a season. It is not necessarily a destination.

A failed plan is a failed plan. It does not automatically mean a failed person.

That distinction became important as I began rebuilding.

I Had to Learn to Live Without Having Everything Figured Out

There is a pressure many adults carry—the pressure to know what comes next.

We want the plan, the timeline, the certainty, the answer.

But life does not always give us those things. Sometimes you have to take the next step without seeing the entire road.

That was one of the lessons this season taught me.

I could not control everything that had happened.

I could not immediately control what would happen next.

But I could control how I responded.

I could keep learning, working, showing up, loving my family, developing people, keep creating and believing that the story was not finished.

That was enough for the next step.

I Came Back, But I Did Not Come Back Empty

This is perhaps the biggest lesson of this chapter.

I initially thought I was coming home with “nothing”

But I eventually realised I was carrying a lot.

I came back with experience. I came back with stories. I came back with lessons.

I came back with a deeper appreciation for family.

I came back with a different understanding of leadership.

I came back with a broader perspective on people.

I came back with greater resilience.

I came back with a clearer understanding of what matters.

And I came back with a renewed appreciation for the gift of music.

Perhaps I did not return with everything I wanted.

But I returned with something I needed:

Perspective.

The Person Who Left Is Not the Person Who Returned

This is what I want to emphasize most.

Sometimes we define success by what we bring back.

The money. The position. The certificate. The business. The opportunity. The achievement.

But perhaps we should also ask:

Who did the journey make you?

Because sometimes, you return with fewer possessions but greater wisdom.

You return with fewer answers but better questions.

You return with fewer plans but greater clarity.

You return with less certainty but greater resilience.

You return thinking you have lost something, only to discover that you have gained a deeper understanding of yourself.

That was my experience.

And Now, Another Birthday

As I celebrate my birthday today, October 5, I find myself reflecting differently on the journey.

I don’t want to pretend that I have arrived. I haven’t. There are still things I am working toward.

There are still questions I don’t have answers to.

There are still areas of my life that require growth.

There are still dreams waiting for expression.

But I can say one thing with honesty:

I am not the same person I used to be.

And perhaps that is worth celebrating.

Not because everything is perfect. Not because every prayer has been answered. Not because every plan has worked.

But because I am still here. Still learning. Still building. Still loving. Still teaching. Still creating. Still dreaming. Still becoming.

I May Not Be There Yet

I have learned to appreciate this sentence:

“I may not be there yet.”

There is humility in it.

But there is also hope. It means I recognise the distance between where I am and where I want to be.

It means I refuse to pretend.

But it also means I haven’t given up.

I may not be where I thought I would be by now.

But I am not where I used to be. And that matters.

Growth is not always dramatic. Sometimes it is simply becoming more intentional, more patient, more aware, more grateful, more resilient, more responsible, more compassionate, more willing to learn, more comfortable with the process.

The Lesson I Carry Forward

If the past few years have taught me anything, it is this:

Life can interrupt your plans without destroying your purpose.

You can lose an opportunity and still find yourself.

You can return home and still move forward.

You can experience rejection and still have value.

You can go through an unfamiliar season and still develop capacity.

You can feel like you have nothing and still be carrying something priceless.

And sometimes, the person who emerges from the difficult season is better equipped for the next chapter than the person who entered it.

“Sometimes, returning is not going back. It is coming home with a perspective that only the journey could have given you.”— Victor Adenola

A Reflection for You

Perhaps you are also in a season that doesn’t look like what you planned.

Maybe you have had to return.

Maybe something you built has ended.

Maybe an opportunity didn’t work out.

Maybe you have experienced rejection.

Maybe you are rebuilding.

Maybe you feel as though you have very little to show for the years you have invested.

Please don’t be too quick to measure your life only by what you can show.

Ask yourself:

• What has the journey built inside me?
• What have I learned?
• How have I changed?
• What capacity have I developed?
• Who have I become?
• Who have I influenced?
• What do I understand now that I didn’t understand before?

Because sometimes, the greatest evidence that a season was not wasted is not what you acquired. It is who you became.

And as I celebrate another year, that is where I find some of my gratitude.

I may not be where I want to be.

But I am not where I used to be.

And I am still becoming.

Coming Next — Series 5: When the Music Plays Again

After the pause, the interruption, the unfamiliar season, the ending, the return, and the lessons, one question remains:

What happens when you are ready to play again?

Perhaps the goal is not to recreate the music exactly as it was before.

Perhaps the next movement requires everything the journey has taught you.

In Series 5, I reflect on new beginnings, intentionality, purpose, family, music, and the courage to begin again—not as the person you were, but as the person you have become.

WHEN LIFE INTERRUPTS THE MUSIC; Series 1

When the Music Had to Pause

A personal reflection on interruptions, responsibilities, and learning when to step back without giving up.

There is a particular kind of silence that musicians understand.

It is the silence after the final chord has faded.

The silence before the first note of a performance.

The silence that comes when an instrument is waiting to be played.

But there is another kind of silence that is not found in music itself.

It happens when life interrupts the music.

Sometimes, you do not stop because you have lost your passion. You stop because something else suddenly requires your attention.

A family responsibility arises. A new opportunity changes your direction. Work becomes demanding. You relocate. Your priorities change. You experience disappointment.

Or life simply presents circumstances that were never included in the plan.

I have experienced some of these moments myself.

And one of the lessons I have gradually learned is this:

Not every pause is a departure from purpose. Sometimes, it is part of the journey toward it.

When Your Passion Meets Your Responsibility

For many years, music has been deeply woven into my life.

It has been my profession, my passion, my means of serving people, a platform for teaching and mentoring, and a significant part of how I have expressed myself.

As a musician, it is easy to develop an internal expectation that music should always have a place on the schedule.

There should be time to practise. Time to teach. Time to prepare. Time to rehearse. Time to perform. Time to create.

But life does not always cooperate with our schedules.

I remember one particularly significant moment when my wife went into labour on the very day a choir concert was scheduled.

I was expected to conduct the concert.

The choir had prepared.

People were waiting.

There was a responsibility to the music and to the people involved.

But there was another responsibility that was even more immediate: my family.

For a musician who takes commitments seriously, that kind of situation can create a difficult internal conflict.

Do I fulfil my responsibility to the choir?

Or do I respond to what is happening at the hospital?

It was one of those moments when life reminded me that although music is important, music is not the whole of life.

There are moments when the most important thing you can conduct is not an orchestra or choir.

Sometimes, you have to conduct your priorities.

And that requires wisdom.

When the Schedule Changes, But the Purpose Remains

One of the mistakes we can make is assuming that if we cannot do something in the way we previously did it, then we are no longer pursuing it.

I have learned that this is not always true.

There have been seasons when my relationship with music changed because my circumstances changed.

At one point, after taking a job overseas, my schedule became significantly busier. The time I once had for regular piano practice became limited.

For a musician, reduced practice can feel uncomfortable.

You know what consistent practice does.

You also know what happens when consistency is disrupted.

But instead of abandoning music altogether, I began to look for another way to remain connected to it within the reality of that season.

With the limited time available to me, I started recording piano instrumentals for YouTube—music designed around meditation, mindfulness, devotion, and reflection.

https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PLxMN1YMton_qk1kTgbe5mpmGTrzgxGR_M&si=iYosmxOS88EGG3dJ

I also began writing down musical ideas and experiences as blog content.

It was different from what I had previously done. But it was still music. The expression had changed. The method had changed. The environment had changed. The purpose had not disappeared.

That experience taught me something I now consider very important:

When circumstances change, sometimes the question is not, “How do I continue exactly as before?” but, “How can I remain faithful to what matters within this new reality?”

The Danger of Fighting Every Interruption

We often celebrate persistence—and rightly so.

We tell people:

Don’t quit. Keep going. Never give up. Stay committed.

These are valuable principles. But there is another lesson we do not discuss enough:

Sometimes you need to pause without interpreting the pause as failure.

There are seasons when continuing at the same pace is simply not wise.

A parent may need to temporarily reduce professional commitments.

A musician may need to take another job.

A business owner may need to restructure.

A student may need to attend to family circumstances.

A professional may need to relocate.

Someone may need to step away from an opportunity in order to deal with something more important.

That does not automatically mean the dream is dead.

Sometimes, it means life has introduced another movement into the composition.

And just as music contains rests, life contains pauses.

A rest in music is not an empty mistake.

It has a purpose. It creates space. It separates phrases. It establishes anticipation. It gives the next sound meaning.

Perhaps some seasons of our lives function the same way.

I Have Also Learned That Identity Can Be Tested During an Interruption

One of the difficult things about stepping away from something you love is that you may begin to question who you are without it.

For someone whose life has been deeply connected to music, what happens when there is less teaching? Less performing? Less practice? Less production? Less time at the instrument?

It is easy to think:

“Am I still progressing?”

“Am I falling behind?”

“Have I lost my place?”

“Will I still be relevant when I return?”

Those questions are understandable.

But experience has taught me that your current activity does not completely define your identity.

There were seasons when I was doing less of certain things musically, yet I was learning more about leadership, responsibility, people, family, adaptability, and life.

Those lessons eventually became part of the musician I became.

They also influenced how I teach, mentor, lead, communicate, and relate to people.

Sometimes, the experiences we consider unrelated to our calling are actually helping to prepare us for the next expression of it.

What If the Interruption Is Teaching You Something?

Looking back, I can see that some of the interruptions in my journey gave me lessons that uninterrupted progress might not have taught me.

Music teaches discipline. But family teaches responsibility.

Music teaches listening. But life teaches us that listening is not only about sound—it is also about understanding people.

Music teaches timing. But life teaches us that not everything should happen on our preferred timetable.

Music teaches dynamics. But life teaches us that there are seasons when we must be loud and seasons when we must be quiet.

Music teaches us about rests. But life teaches us how to pause.

And perhaps that is why some interruptions should not immediately be viewed as obstacles.

Sometimes, they are classrooms.

The Difference Between Pausing and Quitting

There is an important distinction between these two.

Quitting says:

“I no longer want this.”

Pausing says:

“This cannot receive the same attention from me right now.”

The two may look similar from the outside. But internally, they can be completely different.

You may temporarily stop performing while still being a musician.

You may reduce your practice while still developing as a musician.

You may step away from a particular role while still carrying the experience it gave you.

You may change direction professionally without abandoning the values and skills that shaped you.

The important thing is to be honest about why you are stepping back.

Sometimes the pause is necessary.

Sometimes it is strategic.

Sometimes it is forced by circumstances.

And sometimes, if we are honest with ourselves, we have simply lost the desire.

Understanding the difference matters.

What I Would Tell My Younger Self

If I could speak to the younger version of myself who was trying to make sense of every unexpected turn, I would probably say:

You don’t have to panic every time the plan changes.

You don’t have to interpret every delay as rejection.

You don’t have to assume that every detour has taken you away from your destination.

And you don’t have to measure your entire journey by how much you accomplished in one particular season.

Some seasons are for building. Some are for learning. Some are for serving. Some are for family. Some are for recovery and reflection. Some are for starting again.

And sometimes, several of these things happen at the same time.

The important thing is to remain intentional.

The Lesson for Me

I have come to understand that life is not a perfectly rehearsed musical score.

There are unexpected changes.

There are pauses.

There are repetitions.

There are transitions.

There are moments when you miss an entrance.

There are moments when another instrument becomes more important than yours.

And there are moments when you have to stop playing one part so you can attend to something happening somewhere else.

That does not necessarily mean the composition has failed. It may simply mean the arrangement has changed.

My experiences have taught me to appreciate the seasons when the music is loud—and to respect the seasons when it becomes quiet.

Because sometimes, the quiet season is doing something inside us that the busy season never could.

A Thought to Take With You

Perhaps something in your own life has been interrupted.

Maybe it is your career, education, business, ministry, music, or your plans for your family, or a dream you once believed would have happened by now.

Before you conclude, ask yourself a different question:

“What is this season asking me to learn, become, or prioritise?”

You may discover that the interruption is not the end of your story.

It may simply be a different part of it.

“A pause in the music does not mean the musician has forgotten the song. Sometimes, the pause creates the space needed to hear what should come next.”— Victor Adenola

Coming Next — Series 2: What Life Teaches Us Outside the Music

Sometimes, the lessons that shape us most are not learned behind an instrument, on a stage, or in a rehearsal room. They are learned through family, work, relationships, responsibility, disappointment, and everyday life.

In Series 2, I reflect on the lessons I have learned outside the music—and how those experiences eventually found their way back into the musician, teacher, leader, husband, father, and person I am becoming.

WHEN LIFE INTERRUPTS THE MUSIC; Series 1

When the Music Had to Pause

A personal reflection on interruptions, responsibilities, and learning when to step back without giving up.

There is a particular kind of silence that musicians understand.

It is the silence after the final chord has faded.

The silence before the first note of a performance.

The silence that comes when an instrument is waiting to be played.

But there is another kind of silence that is not found in music itself.

It happens when life interrupts the music.

Sometimes, you do not stop because you have lost your passion. You stop because something else suddenly requires your attention.

A family responsibility arises. A new opportunity changes your direction. Work becomes demanding. You relocate. Your priorities change. You experience disappointment.

Or life simply presents circumstances that were never included in the plan.

I have experienced some of these moments myself.

And one of the lessons I have gradually learned is this:

Not every pause is a departure from purpose. Sometimes, it is part of the journey toward it.

When Your Passion Meets Your Responsibility

For many years, music has been deeply woven into my life.

It has been my profession, my passion, my means of serving people, a platform for teaching and mentoring, and a significant part of how I have expressed myself.

As a musician, it is easy to develop an internal expectation that music should always have a place on the schedule.

There should be time to practise. Time to teach. Time to prepare. Time to rehearse. Time to perform. Time to create.

But life does not always cooperate with our schedules.

I remember one particularly significant moment when my wife went into labour on the very day a choir concert was scheduled.

I was expected to conduct the concert.

The choir had prepared.

People were waiting.

There was a responsibility to the music and to the people involved.

But there was another responsibility that was even more immediate: my family.

For a musician who takes commitments seriously, that kind of situation can create a difficult internal conflict.

Do I fulfil my responsibility to the choir?

Or do I respond to what is happening at the hospital?

It was one of those moments when life reminded me that although music is important, music is not the whole of life.

There are moments when the most important thing you can conduct is not an orchestra or choir.

Sometimes, you have to conduct your priorities.

And that requires wisdom.

When the Schedule Changes, But the Purpose Remains

One of the mistakes we can make is assuming that if we cannot do something in the way we previously did it, then we are no longer pursuing it.

I have learned that this is not always true.

There have been seasons when my relationship with music changed because my circumstances changed.

At one point, after taking a job overseas, my schedule became significantly busier. The time I once had for regular piano practice became limited.

For a musician, reduced practice can feel uncomfortable.

You know what consistent practice does.

You also know what happens when consistency is disrupted.

But instead of abandoning music altogether, I began to look for another way to remain connected to it within the reality of that season.

With the limited time available to me, I started recording piano instrumentals for YouTube—music designed around meditation, mindfulness, devotion, and reflection.

https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PLxMN1YMton_qk1kTgbe5mpmGTrzgxGR_M&si=iYosmxOS88EGG3dJ

I also began writing down musical ideas and experiences as blog content.

It was different from what I had previously done. But it was still music. The expression had changed. The method had changed. The environment had changed. The purpose had not disappeared.

That experience taught me something I now consider very important:

When circumstances change, sometimes the question is not, “How do I continue exactly as before?” but, “How can I remain faithful to what matters within this new reality?”

The Danger of Fighting Every Interruption

We often celebrate persistence—and rightly so.

We tell people:

Don’t quit. Keep going. Never give up. Stay committed.

These are valuable principles. But there is another lesson we do not discuss enough:

Sometimes you need to pause without interpreting the pause as failure.

There are seasons when continuing at the same pace is simply not wise.

A parent may need to temporarily reduce professional commitments.

A musician may need to take another job.

A business owner may need to restructure.

A student may need to attend to family circumstances.

A professional may need to relocate.

Someone may need to step away from an opportunity in order to deal with something more important.

That does not automatically mean the dream is dead.

Sometimes, it means life has introduced another movement into the composition.

And just as music contains rests, life contains pauses.

A rest in music is not an empty mistake.

It has a purpose. It creates space. It separates phrases. It establishes anticipation. It gives the next sound meaning.

Perhaps some seasons of our lives function the same way.

I Have Also Learned That Identity Can Be Tested During an Interruption

One of the difficult things about stepping away from something you love is that you may begin to question who you are without it.

For someone whose life has been deeply connected to music, what happens when there is less teaching? Less performing? Less practice? Less production? Less time at the instrument?

It is easy to think:

“Am I still progressing?”

“Am I falling behind?”

“Have I lost my place?”

“Will I still be relevant when I return?”

Those questions are understandable.

But experience has taught me that your current activity does not completely define your identity.

There were seasons when I was doing less of certain things musically, yet I was learning more about leadership, responsibility, people, family, adaptability, and life.

Those lessons eventually became part of the musician I became.

They also influenced how I teach, mentor, lead, communicate, and relate to people.

Sometimes, the experiences we consider unrelated to our calling are actually helping to prepare us for the next expression of it.

What If the Interruption Is Teaching You Something?

Looking back, I can see that some of the interruptions in my journey gave me lessons that uninterrupted progress might not have taught me.

Music teaches discipline. But family teaches responsibility.

Music teaches listening. But life teaches us that listening is not only about sound—it is also about understanding people.

Music teaches timing. But life teaches us that not everything should happen on our preferred timetable.

Music teaches dynamics. But life teaches us that there are seasons when we must be loud and seasons when we must be quiet.

Music teaches us about rests. But life teaches us how to pause.

And perhaps that is why some interruptions should not immediately be viewed as obstacles.

Sometimes, they are classrooms.

The Difference Between Pausing and Quitting

There is an important distinction between these two.

Quitting says:

“I no longer want this.”

Pausing says:

“This cannot receive the same attention from me right now.”

The two may look similar from the outside. But internally, they can be completely different.

You may temporarily stop performing while still being a musician.

You may reduce your practice while still developing as a musician.

You may step away from a particular role while still carrying the experience it gave you.

You may change direction professionally without abandoning the values and skills that shaped you.

The important thing is to be honest about why you are stepping back.

Sometimes the pause is necessary.

Sometimes it is strategic.

Sometimes it is forced by circumstances.

And sometimes, if we are honest with ourselves, we have simply lost the desire.

Understanding the difference matters.

What I Would Tell My Younger Self

If I could speak to the younger version of myself who was trying to make sense of every unexpected turn, I would probably say:

You don’t have to panic every time the plan changes.

You don’t have to interpret every delay as rejection.

You don’t have to assume that every detour has taken you away from your destination.

And you don’t have to measure your entire journey by how much you accomplished in one particular season.

Some seasons are for building. Some are for learning. Some are for serving. Some are for family. Some are for recovery and reflection. Some are for starting again.

And sometimes, several of these things happen at the same time.

The important thing is to remain intentional.

The Lesson for Me

I have come to understand that life is not a perfectly rehearsed musical score.

There are unexpected changes.

There are pauses.

There are repetitions.

There are transitions.

There are moments when you miss an entrance.

There are moments when another instrument becomes more important than yours.

And there are moments when you have to stop playing one part so you can attend to something happening somewhere else.

That does not necessarily mean the composition has failed. It may simply mean the arrangement has changed.

My experiences have taught me to appreciate the seasons when the music is loud—and to respect the seasons when it becomes quiet.

Because sometimes, the quiet season is doing something inside us that the busy season never could.

A Thought to Take With You

Perhaps something in your own life has been interrupted.

Maybe it is your career, education, business, ministry, music, or your plans for your family, or a dream you once believed would have happened by now.

Before you conclude, ask yourself a different question:

“What is this season asking me to learn, become, or prioritise?”

You may discover that the interruption is not the end of your story.

It may simply be a different part of it.

“A pause in the music does not mean the musician has forgotten the song. Sometimes, the pause creates the space needed to hear what should come next.”— Victor Adenola

Coming Next — Series 2: What Life Teaches Us Outside the Music

Sometimes, the lessons that shape us most are not learned behind an instrument, on a stage, or in a rehearsal room. They are learned through family, work, relationships, responsibility, disappointment, and everyday life.

In Series 2, I reflect on the lessons I have learned outside the music—and how those experiences eventually found their way back into the musician, teacher, leader, husband, father, and person I am becoming.

WHEN LIFE INTERRUPTS THE MUSIC; Series 1

When the Music Had to Pause

A personal reflection on interruptions, responsibilities, and learning when to step back without giving up.

There is a particular kind of silence that musicians understand.

It is the silence after the final chord has faded.

The silence before the first note of a performance.

The silence that comes when an instrument is waiting to be played.

But there is another kind of silence that is not found in music itself.

It happens when life interrupts the music.

Sometimes, you do not stop because you have lost your passion. You stop because something else suddenly requires your attention.

A family responsibility arises. A new opportunity changes your direction. Work becomes demanding. You relocate. Your priorities change. You experience disappointment.

Or life simply presents circumstances that were never included in the plan.

I have experienced some of these moments myself.

And one of the lessons I have gradually learned is this:

Not every pause is a departure from purpose. Sometimes, it is part of the journey toward it.

When Your Passion Meets Your Responsibility

For many years, music has been deeply woven into my life.

It has been my profession, my passion, my means of serving people, a platform for teaching and mentoring, and a significant part of how I have expressed myself.

As a musician, it is easy to develop an internal expectation that music should always have a place on the schedule.

There should be time to practise. Time to teach. Time to prepare. Time to rehearse. Time to perform. Time to create.

But life does not always cooperate with our schedules.

I remember one particularly significant moment when my wife went into labour on the very day a choir concert was scheduled.

I was expected to conduct the concert.

The choir had prepared.

People were waiting.

There was a responsibility to the music and to the people involved.

But there was another responsibility that was even more immediate: my family.

For a musician who takes commitments seriously, that kind of situation can create a difficult internal conflict.

Do I fulfil my responsibility to the choir?

Or do I respond to what is happening at the hospital?

It was one of those moments when life reminded me that although music is important, music is not the whole of life.

There are moments when the most important thing you can conduct is not an orchestra or choir.

Sometimes, you have to conduct your priorities.

And that requires wisdom.

When the Schedule Changes, But the Purpose Remains

One of the mistakes we can make is assuming that if we cannot do something in the way we previously did it, then we are no longer pursuing it.

I have learned that this is not always true.

There have been seasons when my relationship with music changed because my circumstances changed.

At one point, after taking a job overseas, my schedule became significantly busier. The time I once had for regular piano practice became limited.

For a musician, reduced practice can feel uncomfortable.

You know what consistent practice does.

You also know what happens when consistency is disrupted.

But instead of abandoning music altogether, I began to look for another way to remain connected to it within the reality of that season.

With the limited time available to me, I started recording piano instrumentals for YouTube—music designed around meditation, mindfulness, devotion, and reflection.

https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PLxMN1YMton_qk1kTgbe5mpmGTrzgxGR_M&si=iYosmxOS88EGG3dJ

I also began writing down musical ideas and experiences as blog content.

It was different from what I had previously done. But it was still music. The expression had changed. The method had changed. The environment had changed. The purpose had not disappeared.

That experience taught me something I now consider very important:

When circumstances change, sometimes the question is not, “How do I continue exactly as before?” but, “How can I remain faithful to what matters within this new reality?”

The Danger of Fighting Every Interruption

We often celebrate persistence—and rightly so.

We tell people:

Don’t quit. Keep going. Never give up. Stay committed.

These are valuable principles. But there is another lesson we do not discuss enough:

Sometimes you need to pause without interpreting the pause as failure.

There are seasons when continuing at the same pace is simply not wise.

A parent may need to temporarily reduce professional commitments.

A musician may need to take another job.

A business owner may need to restructure.

A student may need to attend to family circumstances.

A professional may need to relocate.

Someone may need to step away from an opportunity in order to deal with something more important.

That does not automatically mean the dream is dead.

Sometimes, it means life has introduced another movement into the composition.

And just as music contains rests, life contains pauses.

A rest in music is not an empty mistake.

It has a purpose. It creates space. It separates phrases. It establishes anticipation. It gives the next sound meaning.

Perhaps some seasons of our lives function the same way.

I Have Also Learned That Identity Can Be Tested During an Interruption

One of the difficult things about stepping away from something you love is that you may begin to question who you are without it.

For someone whose life has been deeply connected to music, what happens when there is less teaching? Less performing? Less practice? Less production? Less time at the instrument?

It is easy to think:

“Am I still progressing?”

“Am I falling behind?”

“Have I lost my place?”

“Will I still be relevant when I return?”

Those questions are understandable.

But experience has taught me that your current activity does not completely define your identity.

There were seasons when I was doing less of certain things musically, yet I was learning more about leadership, responsibility, people, family, adaptability, and life.

Those lessons eventually became part of the musician I became.

They also influenced how I teach, mentor, lead, communicate, and relate to people.

Sometimes, the experiences we consider unrelated to our calling are actually helping to prepare us for the next expression of it.

What If the Interruption Is Teaching You Something?

Looking back, I can see that some of the interruptions in my journey gave me lessons that uninterrupted progress might not have taught me.

Music teaches discipline. But family teaches responsibility.

Music teaches listening. But life teaches us that listening is not only about sound—it is also about understanding people.

Music teaches timing. But life teaches us that not everything should happen on our preferred timetable.

Music teaches dynamics. But life teaches us that there are seasons when we must be loud and seasons when we must be quiet.

Music teaches us about rests. But life teaches us how to pause.

And perhaps that is why some interruptions should not immediately be viewed as obstacles.

Sometimes, they are classrooms.

The Difference Between Pausing and Quitting

There is an important distinction between these two.

Quitting says:

“I no longer want this.”

Pausing says:

“This cannot receive the same attention from me right now.”

The two may look similar from the outside. But internally, they can be completely different.

You may temporarily stop performing while still being a musician.

You may reduce your practice while still developing as a musician.

You may step away from a particular role while still carrying the experience it gave you.

You may change direction professionally without abandoning the values and skills that shaped you.

The important thing is to be honest about why you are stepping back.

Sometimes the pause is necessary.

Sometimes it is strategic.

Sometimes it is forced by circumstances.

And sometimes, if we are honest with ourselves, we have simply lost the desire.

Understanding the difference matters.

What I Would Tell My Younger Self

If I could speak to the younger version of myself who was trying to make sense of every unexpected turn, I would probably say:

You don’t have to panic every time the plan changes.

You don’t have to interpret every delay as rejection.

You don’t have to assume that every detour has taken you away from your destination.

And you don’t have to measure your entire journey by how much you accomplished in one particular season.

Some seasons are for building. Some are for learning. Some are for serving. Some are for family. Some are for recovery and reflection. Some are for starting again.

And sometimes, several of these things happen at the same time.

The important thing is to remain intentional.

The Lesson for Me

I have come to understand that life is not a perfectly rehearsed musical score.

There are unexpected changes.

There are pauses.

There are repetitions.

There are transitions.

There are moments when you miss an entrance.

There are moments when another instrument becomes more important than yours.

And there are moments when you have to stop playing one part so you can attend to something happening somewhere else.

That does not necessarily mean the composition has failed. It may simply mean the arrangement has changed.

My experiences have taught me to appreciate the seasons when the music is loud—and to respect the seasons when it becomes quiet.

Because sometimes, the quiet season is doing something inside us that the busy season never could.

A Thought to Take With You

Perhaps something in your own life has been interrupted.

Maybe it is your career, education, business, ministry, music, or your plans for your family, or a dream you once believed would have happened by now.

Before you conclude, ask yourself a different question:

“What is this season asking me to learn, become, or prioritise?”

You may discover that the interruption is not the end of your story.

It may simply be a different part of it.

“A pause in the music does not mean the musician has forgotten the song. Sometimes, the pause creates the space needed to hear what should come next.”— Victor Adenola

Coming Next — Series 2: What Life Teaches Us Outside the Music

Sometimes, the lessons that shape us most are not learned behind an instrument, on a stage, or in a rehearsal room. They are learned through family, work, relationships, responsibility, disappointment, and everyday life.

In Series 2, I reflect on the lessons I have learned outside the music—and how those experiences eventually found their way back into the musician, teacher, leader, husband, father, and person I am becoming.

WHEN LIFE INTERRUPTS THE MUSIC; Series 1

When the Music Had to Pause

A personal reflection on interruptions, responsibilities, and learning when to step back without giving up.

There is a particular kind of silence that musicians understand.

It is the silence after the final chord has faded.

The silence before the first note of a performance.

The silence that comes when an instrument is waiting to be played.

But there is another kind of silence that is not found in music itself.

It happens when life interrupts the music.

Sometimes, you do not stop because you have lost your passion. You stop because something else suddenly requires your attention.

A family responsibility arises. A new opportunity changes your direction. Work becomes demanding. You relocate. Your priorities change. You experience disappointment.

Or life simply presents circumstances that were never included in the plan.

I have experienced some of these moments myself.

And one of the lessons I have gradually learned is this:

Not every pause is a departure from purpose. Sometimes, it is part of the journey toward it.

When Your Passion Meets Your Responsibility

For many years, music has been deeply woven into my life.

It has been my profession, my passion, my means of serving people, a platform for teaching and mentoring, and a significant part of how I have expressed myself.

As a musician, it is easy to develop an internal expectation that music should always have a place on the schedule.

There should be time to practise. Time to teach. Time to prepare. Time to rehearse. Time to perform. Time to create.

But life does not always cooperate with our schedules.

I remember one particularly significant moment when my wife went into labour on the very day a choir concert was scheduled.

I was expected to conduct the concert.

The choir had prepared.

People were waiting.

There was a responsibility to the music and to the people involved.

But there was another responsibility that was even more immediate: my family.

For a musician who takes commitments seriously, that kind of situation can create a difficult internal conflict.

Do I fulfil my responsibility to the choir?

Or do I respond to what is happening at the hospital?

It was one of those moments when life reminded me that although music is important, music is not the whole of life.

There are moments when the most important thing you can conduct is not an orchestra or choir.

Sometimes, you have to conduct your priorities.

And that requires wisdom.

When the Schedule Changes, But the Purpose Remains

One of the mistakes we can make is assuming that if we cannot do something in the way we previously did it, then we are no longer pursuing it.

I have learned that this is not always true.

There have been seasons when my relationship with music changed because my circumstances changed.

At one point, after taking a job overseas, my schedule became significantly busier. The time I once had for regular piano practice became limited.

For a musician, reduced practice can feel uncomfortable.

You know what consistent practice does.

You also know what happens when consistency is disrupted.

But instead of abandoning music altogether, I began to look for another way to remain connected to it within the reality of that season.

With the limited time available to me, I started recording piano instrumentals for YouTube—music designed around meditation, mindfulness, devotion, and reflection.

https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PLxMN1YMton_qk1kTgbe5mpmGTrzgxGR_M&si=iYosmxOS88EGG3dJ

I also began writing down musical ideas and experiences as blog content.

It was different from what I had previously done. But it was still music. The expression had changed. The method had changed. The environment had changed. The purpose had not disappeared.

That experience taught me something I now consider very important:

When circumstances change, sometimes the question is not, “How do I continue exactly as before?” but, “How can I remain faithful to what matters within this new reality?”

The Danger of Fighting Every Interruption

We often celebrate persistence—and rightly so.

We tell people:

Don’t quit. Keep going. Never give up. Stay committed.

These are valuable principles. But there is another lesson we do not discuss enough:

Sometimes you need to pause without interpreting the pause as failure.

There are seasons when continuing at the same pace is simply not wise.

A parent may need to temporarily reduce professional commitments.

A musician may need to take another job.

A business owner may need to restructure.

A student may need to attend to family circumstances.

A professional may need to relocate.

Someone may need to step away from an opportunity in order to deal with something more important.

That does not automatically mean the dream is dead.

Sometimes, it means life has introduced another movement into the composition.

And just as music contains rests, life contains pauses.

A rest in music is not an empty mistake.

It has a purpose. It creates space. It separates phrases. It establishes anticipation. It gives the next sound meaning.

Perhaps some seasons of our lives function the same way.

I Have Also Learned That Identity Can Be Tested During an Interruption

One of the difficult things about stepping away from something you love is that you may begin to question who you are without it.

For someone whose life has been deeply connected to music, what happens when there is less teaching? Less performing? Less practice? Less production? Less time at the instrument?

It is easy to think:

“Am I still progressing?”

“Am I falling behind?”

“Have I lost my place?”

“Will I still be relevant when I return?”

Those questions are understandable.

But experience has taught me that your current activity does not completely define your identity.

There were seasons when I was doing less of certain things musically, yet I was learning more about leadership, responsibility, people, family, adaptability, and life.

Those lessons eventually became part of the musician I became.

They also influenced how I teach, mentor, lead, communicate, and relate to people.

Sometimes, the experiences we consider unrelated to our calling are actually helping to prepare us for the next expression of it.

What If the Interruption Is Teaching You Something?

Looking back, I can see that some of the interruptions in my journey gave me lessons that uninterrupted progress might not have taught me.

Music teaches discipline. But family teaches responsibility.

Music teaches listening. But life teaches us that listening is not only about sound—it is also about understanding people.

Music teaches timing. But life teaches us that not everything should happen on our preferred timetable.

Music teaches dynamics. But life teaches us that there are seasons when we must be loud and seasons when we must be quiet.

Music teaches us about rests. But life teaches us how to pause.

And perhaps that is why some interruptions should not immediately be viewed as obstacles.

Sometimes, they are classrooms.

The Difference Between Pausing and Quitting

There is an important distinction between these two.

Quitting says:

“I no longer want this.”

Pausing says:

“This cannot receive the same attention from me right now.”

The two may look similar from the outside. But internally, they can be completely different.

You may temporarily stop performing while still being a musician.

You may reduce your practice while still developing as a musician.

You may step away from a particular role while still carrying the experience it gave you.

You may change direction professionally without abandoning the values and skills that shaped you.

The important thing is to be honest about why you are stepping back.

Sometimes the pause is necessary.

Sometimes it is strategic.

Sometimes it is forced by circumstances.

And sometimes, if we are honest with ourselves, we have simply lost the desire.

Understanding the difference matters.

What I Would Tell My Younger Self

If I could speak to the younger version of myself who was trying to make sense of every unexpected turn, I would probably say:

You don’t have to panic every time the plan changes.

You don’t have to interpret every delay as rejection.

You don’t have to assume that every detour has taken you away from your destination.

And you don’t have to measure your entire journey by how much you accomplished in one particular season.

Some seasons are for building. Some are for learning. Some are for serving. Some are for family. Some are for recovery and reflection. Some are for starting again.

And sometimes, several of these things happen at the same time.

The important thing is to remain intentional.

The Lesson for Me

I have come to understand that life is not a perfectly rehearsed musical score.

There are unexpected changes.

There are pauses.

There are repetitions.

There are transitions.

There are moments when you miss an entrance.

There are moments when another instrument becomes more important than yours.

And there are moments when you have to stop playing one part so you can attend to something happening somewhere else.

That does not necessarily mean the composition has failed. It may simply mean the arrangement has changed.

My experiences have taught me to appreciate the seasons when the music is loud—and to respect the seasons when it becomes quiet.

Because sometimes, the quiet season is doing something inside us that the busy season never could.

A Thought to Take With You

Perhaps something in your own life has been interrupted.

Maybe it is your career, education, business, ministry, music, or your plans for your family, or a dream you once believed would have happened by now.

Before you conclude, ask yourself a different question:

“What is this season asking me to learn, become, or prioritise?”

You may discover that the interruption is not the end of your story.

It may simply be a different part of it.

“A pause in the music does not mean the musician has forgotten the song. Sometimes, the pause creates the space needed to hear what should come next.”— Victor Adenola

Coming Next — Series 2: What Life Teaches Us Outside the Music

Sometimes, the lessons that shape us most are not learned behind an instrument, on a stage, or in a rehearsal room. They are learned through family, work, relationships, responsibility, disappointment, and everyday life.

In Series 2, I reflect on the lessons I have learned outside the music—and how those experiences eventually found their way back into the musician, teacher, leader, husband, father, and person I am becoming.

Richard Haass: "I understand the argument for getting U.S. forces out of Iraq, but the timing could hardly be worse, as it will contribute to the perception that Iran is emerging as the region’s dominant country."
#IranWar #military #retreat

Richard Haass: "I understand the argument for getting U.S. forces out of Iraq, but the timing could hardly be worse, as it will contribute to the perception that Iran is emerging as the region’s dominant country."
#IranWar #military #retreat

Richard Haass: "I understand the argument for getting U.S. forces out of Iraq, but the timing could hardly be worse, as it will contribute to the perception that Iran is emerging as the region’s dominant country."
#IranWar #military #retreat