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