My 9-5 is 100% remote. That sounds cool on paper. In reality, it means my daily interactions are mostly with the dog, the school run, and quick evenings with my wife and daughter. No lunch breaks with colleagues, no accidental hallway conversations. After years of this, the energy drain is real. Days start to blur into one long, quiet stretch. New friends? Almost impossible. The subtle loneliness creeps in quietly. You don’t notice until you’re wondering why even good days feel flat.
I used to fix it the easy way: a walk to the local brewery, a few pints, laughs with familiar faces. It’s 20 minutes from my door, and at 37, that convenience is as dangerous as it is tempting. But beer-led socialising is shallow. It gets you out, but it doesn’t build real connection. Worse, it leaves you paying the next morning. Crappy mood, mood, low energy, maybe some regret.
If I kept going down that route, I’d end up having to go out to the pub every time I wanted to catch up with people. Beer is fun but it’s a shallow form of socialising and friendship.
So I’ve been seeking out a hobby that gets me out the house, let’s me socialise, and doesn’t involve beer. And I’ve found the perfect activity in something called the Chop Shop. It’s essentially a “gym for guitarists”. It’s a structured space where you can improve your guitar skills, have a community of musicians, and give yourself a mental reset without the booze.
The First Session
I’ve spent a lot of time recently playing guitar by myself in the garden studio. So naturally I was feeling the nerves as I drove down the dual carriageway to the first session. Would the other guitarists all be professionals? Would they think my Nirvana t-shirt was lame?
The main idea behind the first session was for everyone to get to know each other and to meet Sam, the teacher. I’ve known Sam for 3 decades now. We went to school together, jammed together in his bedroom recording guitar to a 4-track Tascam, and played in a wedding band.
Once the introductions were done, it was time to learn. Twelve of us sat in a couple of rows, guitars in hand. We started simple: A minor pentatonic scale and strict limitations of only playing 2 strings. Nobody stuck to it of course, We’re guitarists!
Everyone got the chance to get up in front of the class, plug into one of the beautiful Victory amps and play over the backing tracks. This was the first time I’d played in front of people in a long time and it felt surprisingly comfortable to do it again.
You weren’t up there by yourself though. You had Sam giving tips and feedback, and 2 other guitarists in the same boat as you. Then came the fast blues track that got you to rotate soloists every few bars.
That’s where Sam’s advice of limitations really came in. Pull from your bag of tricks and licks and decide what you’re going to play before the backing track starts. This way you don’t panic when faced with a fretboard full of possibilities. It’s actually similar to something Dan Koe wrote in a recent article of his. He said,
“If you want to articulate yourself intelligently, you need a pool of 8-10 of your biggest ideas that can be connected to almost any topic. Then, when it’s time to write or speak in any situation, you have a starting point that you’ve already thought through hundreds of times before.”
Will I Go Again?
I’m signing up weekly. Tuesday nights I’m already teaching guitar, so Thursdays at Chop Shop fit perfectly.
The days after that first session, I woke up happier, even on little sleep. I felt progress. I stepped out of my comfort zone and thrived. For someone who works from home alone most days, that small win compounds. Covid normalised isolation for lots of us; remote work made it too easy to stay there. But showing up, playing, chatting, and getting feedback is rebuilding the social muscle.
If you’re feeling the same quiet drain of going through the motions and drinking to be sociable, find your version of Chop Shop. A class, a running group, a book club, anything that gets you out and building depth in something you care about. One structured evening can remind you what being fully human feels like.