Self Compassion

Here's what I know after 78 years
Kid, let me tell you something about self-compassion. People get it twisted. They think it’s about skipping practice, or letting yourself off the hook. Nah. It’s the opposite of that.

First myth: Self-compassion is self-pity. Wrong. When I was 42, drowning in whiskey and shame, I’d yell at myself: "You’re a failure. You’ll never fix this." That voice? It was a flatline. Self-compassion isn’t whispering "It’s okay" while you stay stuck. It’s saying "This hurts, and I’m here with you"—then still showing up for the next set. Like when I missed a solo in ’63, I didn’t quit. I sat with the silence, then played the next phrase.

Second myth: It’s weak. Bull. In jazz, the rest notes are where the groove lives. You don’t skip them to sound "strong." You need them to breathe. Self-compassion isn’t soft—it’s the discipline to hold yourself gently while you do the hard work. When I lost my family in the ’80s, I didn’t "forgive myself" overnight. I just stopped screaming at my own reflection. That quiet moment? That’s where the healing started.

Third myth: It’s only for the broken. Nope. It’s for everyone. Even the ones who seem "together." I’ve seen young drummers panic when they flub a lick, thinking they’re "not good enough." But the real mistake isn’t the flub—it’s the shame that makes them stop playing. Self-compassion isn’t a reward for being perfect. It’s the foundation for being *human*.

Why does this matter? Because if you’re always beating yourself up, you’ll never hear the music. You’ll just hear the noise of your own criticism. I spent years chasing applause with my sticks, but the only applause that ever mattered was the one I gave myself when I finally said, "Okay, I’m here. Let’s try again."

You learn to play the rest notes too. That silence? It’s not empty. It’s where you find your rhythm again.

— Roger Jackson, still playing

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Written by Roger Jackson — 05:22, 02 January 2026 (CST)