To age out

DCI southwest was my first show to attend purely as a fan since discovering the activity in early high school. I began performing in 2015, and for five summers I saw bits and pieces of drum corps shows while on the road. It would have been six, but covid ended the drum corps careers of myself and many others early with the cancellation of the 2020 season. Since the initial wave of sadness that came with the news, I haven't thought much about drum corps besides continuing to teach a high school marching band and having a few friends who are involved.

The Blue Devils are incredible, and the performance on Saturday caused many emotions. I see them with the same awe as I did years ago, the whole organization having this air of excellence which is hard to quantify. After the show, I saw members in uniform walking back to the buses. They may or may not have already known that they won the show, but it didn't matter. You always walk back knowing you're the best, and it made me miss that walk.

In high contrast is the image of me, sitting in an office with no windows, studying manuals and documentation, trying to fit into my new role as a software engineer. It's what I studied to do, but by no means is it as glamorous as being a DCI performer. As depressing as that is... nothing is like being a DCI performer. Even if you're staying in music after marching, you're most likely becoming a teacher. There are many important and personally fulfilling roles out there, but I claim that none comes close to the thrill of performing.

I have been wondering how to make "real life", or life after drum corps, as special as those brief few years when you got to tour the country and show off that you're the best in the world. How could software engineering, teaching, cooking, accounting, or being the President be as special as that? How can one bring the energy of tour—practicing, traveling, engaging every single day—to ordinary life? Maybe it isn't healthy to constantly reminisce on those days, but incorporating similar principles could be very positive. The important things to me now are to become a great runner and engineer; to have good relationships and to not complain; to cook and travel and read often; to teach and inspire others to be excellent; to write honestly about my experiences to share them and preserve these words for after I'm gone. All of this will be done with the joy and gratitude from having been a performer and the stubborn sadness that it's over forever.

I often remind myself that both happiness and sadness are to be desired. Immersion and longing; anticipation and rememberance; too hot and too cold; the panic to get out of the spotlight and the shameful desire for attention. Emotions are on a spectrum and it isn't good to only ever be on one end. This sadness, while painful, is good. It is the other end of a spectrum on which I've occupied many places; a contrast to the smile I had during our encore run—my last performance ever—the happiest and proudest moment of my life.