For three years I’ve been releasing music to a tiny audience.
Not “blowing up.”
Not “algorithmically blessed.”
Not “about to break through.”
Just small, scattered signs of life.
A handful of listeners who keep coming back.
Some solid radio support.
A modest social following.
Enough to know the music isn’t nothing — but nowhere near enough to feel momentum.
I write the songs.
I pay for the production.
I obsess over the mixes.
I release them properly.
I pitch them.
I send the emails.
I do the blogs.
I do the radio submissions.
And most of the time, the response is still… quiet.
That’s the part people don’t talk about.
Because silence doesn’t mean failure — it means limbo. You’re not rejected, and you’re not rewarded. You’re just hovering in that uncomfortable middle space where effort and outcome don’t line up.
After long enough, motivation stops being excitement and becomes endurance.
You start questioning things that shouldn’t even be questioned:
Am I actually good?
Is this worth the money?
Am I being patient — or just stubborn?
Would stopping be healthier, or would that break something deeper?
The hardest part isn’t the numbers. It’s the lack of proportionate feedback. When progress doesn’t echo back at the same volume you put in, perspective gets distorted. You’re not being told you’re bad — which you could work with. You’re being told very little.
And yet… the music keeps improving.
That’s the grounding truth underneath it all. The songs now are stronger than they were a year ago. The vocals are better. The writing is clearer. The confidence is real, not imagined. Growth is happening — just not where the internet tells you it’s supposed to show up.
So eventually you’re forced to face a sharper question:
If the audience stays small… do I still do this?
For me, the answer has shifted.
I don’t release music anymore expecting it to rescue me, validate me, or prove my worth. I release it because it’s part of who I am, because stopping would feel like erasing something honest, and because progress itself has value — even when it isn’t widely witnessed.
That doesn’t make it noble.
It doesn’t make it romantic.
It just makes it real.
Releasing music to a tiny audience teaches you something most people never have to learn: how much of yourself you’re willing to stand behind when the room isn’t full.
And I’m still here.