Of course, I would be depressed sometimes, and my Mom would be

Hearken, children of reflection, to the words of Chantal Kreviazuk, who confesses: "Of course, I would be depressed sometimes, and my Mom would be worried about me because I would just sleep to escape. Cause I was so scared of being a musician or artist, or whatever you want to call it." In these words lies a meditation upon fear, ambition, and the tender care of those who watch over us. Since the days of the ancients, humanity has recognized that the path of creation is often shadowed by doubt, trepidation, and the struggle to reconcile inner calling with external expectation.

The ancients understood that the pursuit of art is as perilous as it is noble. Plato and Aristotle alike spoke of the tension between desire and reason, between the call of the soul and the fear of failure. Kreviazuk’s confession of depression and retreat into sleep reflects this timeless struggle: the artist’s heart, aware of its own sensitivity and potential, sometimes recoils from the enormity of its task. Fear is both a teacher and an obstacle, warning of danger while urging courage.

Consider the life of Ludwig van Beethoven, who, upon discovering the progressive loss of his hearing, retreated into solitude, consumed by fear for his musical destiny. Like Kreviazuk, he experienced moments of despair, of wishing to escape the burdens of his calling. Yet, through that confrontation with fear, he forged compositions of profound depth and universality. History teaches that the path of creation is rarely easy, and that the struggle with anxiety and self-doubt is an integral part of artistic triumph.

The quote also illuminates the role of parental care and vigilance. Kreviazuk’s Mom observed her child’s withdrawal, feeling worried, yet this concern is an act of love, a grounding force in turbulent times. In the ancient world, the family was both refuge and guide, providing counsel, protection, and moral support while allowing the fledgling soul to confront its destiny. Even in moments of fear and depression, this attentive presence becomes a lifeline, a reminder that courage need not be solitary.

Her words reveal the universality of fear in creative pursuits. To be scared of being a musician or artist is to confront the uncertainty of success, the vulnerability inherent in self-expression, and the judgment of the world. Many great creators have faced similar trepidation. Michelangelo, at the dawn of his career, labored under the immense expectations of patrons and the daunting legacy of predecessors, yet it was precisely this fear that sharpened his dedication and refined his genius.

From this reflection emerges a timeless lesson: fear, withdrawal, and even depression are natural companions on the path of vocation. To retreat is not shame, but a signal of the magnitude of the journey ahead. Kreviazuk’s honesty encourages us to recognize our own moments of fragility, to honor them, and to seek the support and guidance that allows us to persevere despite uncertainty.

Practical actions follow naturally. When confronted with fear or desire to escape, allow space for reflection and rest, but also seek counsel, mentorship, or support from those who care. Cultivate discipline alongside compassion for yourself, acknowledging the magnitude of your calling. Engage gradually with your craft, embracing both the challenges and the joys inherent in creation, understanding that courage is forged in the very act of persistence.

Remember, children of the ages, that the journey of the artist—or any who pursue their true calling—is fraught with moments of doubt, anxiety, and withdrawal. Chantal Kreviazuk’s words illuminate a profound truth: that fear and depression do not disqualify the spirit, but mark the presence of a calling strong enough to shake the heart. In embracing these challenges with courage and support, we transform trepidation into mastery, and uncertainty into the fertile soil from which greatness grows.