IN OUR HEADS
November 13, 2025
Key Takeaways:
· Nick Eberhardt reflects on how growing up in Minnesota instilled clarity, groundedness, and resilience, shaping his mindset for life’s challenges.
· Nick’s time as a touring musician in Florida taught camaraderie, adaptability, and the importance of helping one another through unpredictable circumstances.
· Moving to California and becoming a parent and designer led to personal and professional growth, overcoming self-doubt, and building meaningful work from the ground up.
· Our unique life experiences create an irreplicable blueprint, and we must embrace our individuality and create authentically.
Us Minnesotans like to think of ourselves as reserved and polite. And for the most part, that’s true. But if we’re being honest, we can come across as a little ... passive aggressive. I think that’s fair.
I left Minnesota for good at 22, chasing a dream of becoming a professional guitarist. But the dream had already started long before. In high school, I toured the world. I spent one summer in Australia playing massive shows — tens of thousands of people — only to return that fall to a senior class of 200. It was surreal. I didn’t come back feeling special. I came back feeling different. That was the year I knew: My small town wasn’t where I was meant to stay.
Still, even after I left, I can see now how much the Midwest shaped me. I’m weatherproof. I’ll take a wind chill over humidity any day. I love the outdoors; the stillness, the woods, the stubbornness of a frozen lake. I’m rooted in community. And even though my head’s often somewhere in the clouds, I carry with me a kind of groundedness that feels inherited, like something quietly passed down.
Growing up in Minnesota gave me this strange superpower: The ability to sit with stillness and find clarity in chaos. It made me OK with stretching past what’s expected, with trying for something bigger, even if it means taking the long way around.
The Grit and Grace of a Musician’s Life in Florida
In 2004, I packed up and moved to Florida to work in a music studio, chasing the dream of becoming a full-time songwriter and hired-gun guitarist. I threw myself all the way in. For years, I lived in vans, survived on $10 a day and couch-surfed across cities with names I barely remember. I played for empty barstools in places like Norman, Oklahoma, and then — suddenly — for seas of bouncing heads at festivals like Austin City Limits.
The contrast was dizzying. One night, you’re (seemingly) important. The next morning, you’re counting change to buy a bean and cheese burrito. That’s the reality of a working-class musician trying to push an album while on a label budget that barely covered gas.
But there was magic in that vagabond lifestyle. Bandmates became something more than coworkers. They became family. It was camaraderie mixed with just the right amount of rebellion — a kind of sacred bond between a few misfits who didn’t take the conventional path.
We kept each other going, pulling each other off sticky green room floors and into the spotlight again, night after night. Somehow, we always got back up and played.
Florida taught me other things, too, like how hurricanes fortify friendships. When storms rolled in, we rolled up our sleeves. We boarded windows, lent out trucks and trailers, shared whatever we had: plywood, toilet paper, a place to crash. No one had to ask. We just showed up.
That same spirit stayed with me as I began my design career. It shaped how I show up for my colleagues — with heart, with hustle, with a willingness to help. Some of my closest friendships were forged during those early music and design years — in office, working shoulder to shoulder with people who believed in possibilities, as well as before and after storms helping communities prepare and rebuild.
Florida made me someone who really sees people. It reminded me that we’re all just trying to get by, and that no one’s dream gets off the ground alone. It taught me that greatness doesn’t happen solo; it happens when we lift each other up.
Design, Family and Finding Myself in California
Fast forward to 2014. By then, I’d made the leap into product design, though music was still a major part of my life. That’s when an opportunity came up to move to California, one of those can’t-say-no chances that felt like a door opening, even if I wasn’t totally sure what was on the other side.
I’d spent a lot of time in California during my touring years, but never really pictured myself living there. Turns out, the door that was opening was fatherhood, and let me go on record saying ... the up-all-night-with-the-baby “hangover” is a whole different enchilada than being hungover with the band in a van.
The first few years in California were rough. Raising kids is hard, which, as any honest parent will tell you, fills your heart and drains your energy in equal measure. It can be lonely, especially in a new state, juggling diapers and deadlines. It triggers a metamorphosis of your ego and introversion and forces you to molt, or risk being a bad parent. At least that’s how it was for me.
But in California, I met some of the best digital designers in the world. Truly world-class talent. It was humbling. For a while, I felt like a total imposter, like I’d snuck in the back door and someone was bound to notice. But little by little, I found my rhythm. I started racking up small wins. Then bigger ones. Eventually, I wasn’t just surviving; I was surprising myself with my own work.
By the time we moved to Chicago eight years later, I’d become someone I was genuinely proud of: a loving dad to two girls and a person with a strong career in design, a growing business and the confidence that comes from getting knocked around and still standing tall.
California taught me a lot. It taught me not to let the fear of being judged — or the voice in my head whispering “you’re not good enough” — keep me from moving forward. It showed me where my strengths are, and where I need help. And ultimately, it was a masterclass in what it takes to build something meaningful from the ground up.
Lessons Etched in Place and Time
You see, Minnesota taught me simplicity. It gave me a love for organic moments of clarity and the mental toolkit to bring order to chaos.
Florida taught me camaraderie. It shaped my resilience. It lit the spark of a relentless, slightly irreverent maker who’s not afraid to build things that feel personal and bold.
California taught me hard work. It handed me a mirror. It forced me to face fear, question my worth and — eventually — grow into someone who doesn’t flinch at the fire.
When you step back and look at me, these places are visible in the grain. You can see them in how I carry myself, how I listen, how I speak, how I show up. You can hear them in my tone and see them in my work.
These aren’t just memories — they’re ingredients. They’ve shaped my taste, my ideas, my approach and my style. I am not much more than what I’ve learned along the way.
Your Blueprint
If you get a chance today, pause. Take a quiet moment to think about your life. Not just the wins, but the setbacks, too. The strange, in-between chapters. The wild detours. Think about what all of it has taught you. The hard-earned wisdom. The soft lessons. The quiet strength. Then, write it down if you can. Let it breathe outside your head.
Because here’s the truth: No one else in this entire universe has your exact story. No one has lived the life you’ve lived, with your blend of experiences, heartbreaks, late-night thoughts, obsessions, curiosities or wild hopes. You are truly 1 of 1.
Which means this: When your work filters through that lens, it becomes sacred. Your taste, your ideas, your approach, your style — they aren’t random. They’re formed through years of lived life. That makes them irreplicable.
There’s enough content in the world. Enough noise. What we need now more than ever is connection. Things that bind us together from those who create from the marrow of their experience. People who understand that their story isn’t baggage, but the blueprint.
So, here’s the trick: Don’t waste your energy trying to contort yourself to fit into the shifting world around you. Don’t shrink yourself to squeeze into someone else’s mold. Instead, be so sure of your shape — your rhythm, your style, your humanity — that the world can’t help but take notice.
Your originality isn’t just valuable. It’s necessary.
Because you and I are not templates. We are fiercely individual.
