They were no longer proof that I had to give up something I loved.

They were problems I could understand, plan for, and sometimes solve.

One night I imagined telling Dad what I had done.

I could hear him asking whether I’d found an accountant and whether the insurance covered fire damage.

This time, instead of feeling criticized, I wished we could have had that conversation when I was younger, with him treating the dream and the responsibilities as equally real.

I wrote a note in the studio ledger: Practical does not have to mean joyless.