There’s a lie we keep telling ourselves in this industry.
That because we love it, we should suffer for it.
That “passion” makes it okay to be underpaid, overtired, and overlooked.
That if you really care about music, you’ll put up with anything.
How many of us have slept in vans, pissed in bottles, eaten gas station food for three meals straight—and called it living the dream?
How many shows have we loaded in after no sleep, worked in venues where safety was a suggestion, and played nice to people who treat crews like furniture?
All because “we’re lucky to be here.”
But here’s the thing.
Love for this life shouldn’t mean loyalty to its worst parts.
The industry thrives on the unpaid overtime of its workers.
On interns who “just want a foot in the door.”
On techs who work 18-hour days to prove they’re team players.
On artists too afraid to say no to unsafe setups because they’re afraid it’ll cost them a tour.
On tour managers who double as therapists.
On crews who get paid last—if at all.
It’s not passion—it’s exploitation, wrapped in nostalgia and duct tape.
And we all know it.
We joke about burnout like it’s a badge of honour.
We glorify the grind.
We see our friends disappear into the job, relationships fall apart, health collapse—and we keep going because “the show must go on.”
But at what cost?
It’s time we stop pretending this is normal.
Stop pretending being treated like shit is the price of loving music.
Stop mistaking suffering for credibility.
You can love what you do and still demand better.
You can love the road and still hate what it’s doing to you.
Both can be true.
They are true.
And if that makes people uncomfortable—good.
Maybe it should.
“We were the first in, last out, and somehow still the last to get fed”
Some Days Are Darker 
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