Dear Sorilbran,
What do you mean we left music?
What do you mean we buried it all?
I’ve been trying to wrap my head around your letter, but honestly, I can’t. How do you just stop doing the one thing that has been a constant in our life? The thing we’ve sacrificed for, cried over, and bled into? Music has always been who we are, what we are. And Detroit? I don’t know how you just let go of a place that raised us.
And the friends? That part doesn’t sit right with me at all. You’re telling me we walked away from Anson? From Ron? From J? From all those hours of dreaming and writing and creating together? From people who’ve been there for us through everything? How do you even decide to bury people who’ve been like family?
And for what? Survival? I’m sorry, but that doesn’t make sense to me. How does survival mean leaving behind the very thing that makes us us? How do you just wake up one day and decide you’re done with something you’ve given your whole life to?
Thirteen years? A 13-year break from music? That’s not a break; that’s walking away. That’s abandoning everything we’ve built, everything we’ve fought for. And I get that life gets hard. I know things aren’t perfect now, and I know the city’s in rough shape, but leaving music? Leaving the guys? Leaving Detroit? It feels like you left me.
I get it—at least, I’m trying to. You were doing what you thought you had to do, what you thought was best for the kids and for our future. But man, that’s hard to hear. It’s hard to hear that we couldn’t find a way to hold on to the things we love while building a better life. It feels like you let go of everything we’ve been working for, everything we’ve dreamed about.
I don’t know what to say to you right now. I’m trying to understand, I really am. But it’s hard to imagine a version of us that doesn’t fight tooth and nail for what we love. So maybe I just need time to process this. Or maybe you need to explain it better because right now, it feels like a betrayal.
And I guess you go by Sorilbran now??
You’ve got my head spinning. I hope you’ve got more to say.
Still in the thick of it,
Rib
Dear Rib,
I know. It sounds unthinkable. It feels like betrayal. I get it, I really do. Let me try to explain it better because you deserve that much.
Leaving music wasn’t a choice I made lightly. It wasn’t even a decision I fully understood at the time. It was survival, plain and simple. And survival doesn’t ask what you want—it demands what you need to let go of to keep moving.
When I left Detroit in 2010, it wasn’t about walking away from the dreams, the relationships, or the life we’d built. It was about building something new in the only way I knew how. I thought I’d be gone for a while, get the girls settled, then come back. I didn’t realize how messy and complicated starting over would be. Brutal doesn’t even begin to cover it.
It wasn’t about thriving; it was about getting through the day. It wasn’t about dreaming; it was about making sure the girls had food, a safe home, and a shot at something better than what I could offer in Detroit.
And in all that chaos, something happened. Slowly, piece by piece, I started putting parts of me down—not because I didn’t value them, but because I couldn’t carry everything and still move forward. Music was one of those things. Not because I didn’t love it, but because I couldn’t see how it fit into this new life I was desperately trying to build.
The relationships? Those hurt the most. I didn’t consciously decide to let them go. They faded, little by little, under the weight of distance and the demands of survival. You know our crew — they weren’t just friends; they were pieces of us. Letting them slip away felt like losing myself, too. And even among our core group, there were those I had to let go of completely to move forward.
You’re right—it doesn’t make sense. But at the time, it was all I could do to keep going.
Here’s what I need you to know, though: the girl who poured her heart into music? She didn’t disappear. She transformed. The drive you have—that hunger for mastery, that refusal to settle for mediocrity—it’s still here. It’s the reason we’re where we are now.
When I put down music, I picked up marketing. Believe it or not, we have a knack for it. Marketing makes as much sense to us as music did, and just like with music, I threw myself into it. I taught myself the patterns and rhythms of algorithms instead of melodies. I became a strategist—a master at visibility, content, and trends. And the work we’ve done? It’s made an impact. Tens of millions of dollars in revenue, recognition in places we never dreamed of (ironically, it’s how we finally made it into Rolling Stone), and a legacy in an entirely new field.
Do I miss music? Of course. There are days when I ache for it. But I’ve learned that the creativity and excellence that drove us in music are the same things that make us successful now. That hunger for mastery? It’s not tied to one thing, Rib. It’s who we are.
So no, it wasn’t the path we planned. And yes, it hurt. But it shaped me into someone I’m proud to be. And that’s the point, isn’t it? The story of us isn’t finished yet.
With love and understanding,
Sorilbran
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