The Road to Nashville: What Have I Done?

What am I doing? Am I crazy? This is stupid. Why did I build this whole life just to walk away from it? The chances of making it in the music industry are probably worse than winning the lottery.

These were just a few of the thoughts running through my head as my new-to-me F-150 pulled out of my driveway in Los Angeles towards Nashville.

The voices of my inner critics were LOUD. And honestly, they made some very valid points. I'd spent years building a life and a career in LA, and here I was, driving away from all of it to chase another life with absolutely no guarantees.

But somewhere underneath all that noise was another little voice asking:

“But what if it all works out?”

It wasn't particularly convincing and most days I could barely hear it over all the reasons this was probably a terrible idea.

But it was there.

And for some reason, that little voice was just enough to keep my foot on the gas toward Nashville.

The Question I Couldn't Ignore

While I was trying to decide whether to stay in LA and continue down the path I was on, or completely dismantle the life I'd worked so hard to build and start a new adventure, there was one story someone told me that I couldn't stop thinking about.

They said, "Imagine you're standing at the foot of your own deathbed, looking at the older version of yourself. If that version of you could give you advice about the life you're living right now, what would they tell you to do differently?"

That question stuck with me.

I loved so many things about the life I'd built in Los Angeles. I had an incredible community, wonderful friends, and a career I'd worked hard for. And I'll probably always miss Sugarfish sushi and afternoons at Rosenthal Winery followed by watching the sunset on the beach. (RIP to Rosenthal after the fires…)

But as much as I loved those things, deep down I knew I wasn't doing what my soul was calling me to do.

And when I imagined myself standing at the foot of my own deathbed, I knew exactly what that older version of me would say.

Life is short. Take the risk.

Even if you fail, at least you'll know you tried.

And here is what I finally realized. I was so afraid of moving to Nashville and not succeeding in music that I hadn't stopped to consider what would happen if I stayed.

If I stayed in LA and never pursued music, I was already guaranteeing the very outcome I was afraid of.

I wouldn't succeed in music because I wasn't even giving myself the chance.

So in a strange way, the worst-case scenario wasn't packing up my life and moving across the country.

It was staying exactly where I was.

Keep Driving

So I decided to do everything I could to make both the seven-year-old girl who used to sneak away to listen to Shania Twain's album and the older version of me looking back on her life proud.

And I knew there was only one way to do that.

Keep driving.

The journey was long, and since I couldn't bring myself to leave a single pair of shoes behind in LA, there was A LOT of unpacking to do when I finally arrived.

As for Nashville? It's been nothing like I expected and everything I expected, all wrapped into one.

Between songwriting sessions, writers' rounds, artist photo shoots, recording sessions, and trying to find my place in the country music community, I've had moments when I thought, This is exactly where I'm supposed to be.

And others when I've wondered, What in the world have I gotten myself into?

There have been some incredible experiences, a few hard lessons, and plenty of things I never saw coming. Some of those stories I'm excited to share. Others I'm still figuring out how to tell.

But that's for another chapter.

Until then, if I could leave you with one question to carry into your day, it would be this:

Is there something you've been wanting to do that would make both your seven-year-old self and the version of you on your deathbed proud?

Maybe it's something big. Maybe it's something you've quietly been putting off for years.

Whatever it is, I hope you'll give yourself the chance to find out what's possible.

Because whether you succeed or fail, I think dreams are worth taking the risk for.

xo, Ellie