Alright – so today we’ve got the honor of introducing you to Moise Chitwara. We think you’ll enjoy our conversation, we’ve shared it below.

Hi Moise, thanks for joining us today. Being a business owner can be really hard sometimes. It’s rewarding, but most business owners we’ve spoken sometimes think about what it would have been like to have had a regular job instead. Have you ever wondered that yourself? Maybe you can talk to us about a time when you felt this way?

Happiness is deceptive.
As a grown man, a fully grown man, you don’t get to sit around asking, “Does this make me happy? Does that make me happy?”
If you live like that, you’ll never fulfill responsibility. You’ll always take the easiest exit.

Yes getting a job is easier.
No argument there.

Building a business from scratch is brutal. I’ve gone broke more times than I can count. I’ve lost money. I’ve watched things fall apart after months or years of effort. There were moments when depression felt close not because I was weak, but because pressure was real.

But that’s the price.

If you want something beyond ordinary, you sacrifice for it.
And people forget this part: a job also requires sacrifice.

When you take a job, you sacrifice your time.
You sacrifice your future for someone else’s company, someone else’s vision.
You trade potential freedom for predictable checks, paycheck to paycheck and call it security.

And that’s fine. Truly. Everyone has their preference.

But let’s be honest: when you choose a job, you accept a ceiling. You accept that freedom won’t really come not while you’re working, and not even after retirement, when you’re living off a pension that still controls your life.

So the real question was never “Does this make me happy?”

The real question was:
What is my responsibility?
What kind of life do I want and what must I do to deserve it?

Am I supposed to feel good every day?
Or am I supposed to put in the work especially when it’s uncomfortable?

My conclusion is simple.

Working a job is honorable. There’s nothing wrong with it.
But the rewards of building something of your own enduring the losses, the uncertainty, the pressure and eventually turning that struggle into a system that runs without you…

That freedom is unmatched.

Being able to choose your time.
To be present with your wife, your children, your family.
To live instead of constantly answering to a clock.

That, to me, is success.

I don’t regret any of it.
The losses.
The hustle.
The stress.

Every bit of it is worth it.

Great, appreciate you sharing that with us. Before we ask you to share more of your insights, can you take a moment to introduce yourself and how you got to where you are today to our readers.

I identify first as a creative specifically a musician and a writer because those are the disciplines where my thinking, my values, and my inner life are expressed most honestly.

Music was my entry point. I began writing and producing not out of ambition, but out of necessity. Music became a way to process reality, emotion, conflict, faith, love, discipline, loss and to impose structure on chaos. Over time, that instinct developed into craft. I learned production, and composition not to follow trends, but to gain control over my work and ensure that what I felt internally could be translated accurately into sound.

My music focuses heavily on sincerity and restraint. I’m not interested in excess or spectacle. I care about emotional truth, tone, and longevity music that still makes sense after the moment passes. Much of my work explores love, devotion, responsibility, inner conflict, and the tension between desire and discipline. I aim to create songs that feel intimate, reflective, and grounded rather than performative.

Writing came naturally alongside music. Where music carries emotion, writing allows me to slow thought down and examine it more precisely. My writing leans philosophical and reflective. Centered on themes of identity, truth, conscience, self-worth, responsibility, and modern confusion. I’m particularly interested in how people lose connection with themselves in a noisy world, and what it takes to recover clarity, meaning, and inner authority.

What ties my music and writing together is the same principle: discipline before expression. I don’t believe creativity is self-indulgence. I believe it’s responsibility to be honest, to be precise, and to avoid manipulating emotion without substance.

What sets me apart is that I don’t create to fill space or chase visibility. I create to build a body of work that holds weight. I’m comfortable with slowness, silence, and refinement. I’d rather release less and mean more.

What I’m most proud of isn’t a single song or piece of writing it’s the consistency of my intent. I haven’t diluted my values to fit formulas, and I haven’t outsourced my voice. Everything I put out carries my fingerprint, my judgment, and my standards.

If there’s one thing I want listeners and readers to know about my work, it’s this:
I’m not trying to entertain distraction. I’m trying to create work that accompanies people through thought, intimacy, and growth.

That’s the lane I’m committed to, and I’m willing to take the time it requires.

We often hear about learning lessons – but just as important is unlearning lessons. Have you ever had to unlearn a lesson?

One of the hardest lessons I had to unlearn was the idea that intensity equals depth.

Early on, I believed that if something felt heavy, dramatic, or emotionally intense, then it must be meaningful. In music and writing especially, I thought emotion had to be loud to be real. So I poured everything out at once oversharing, over-expressing, trying to prove sincerity through force.

The backstory is simple: I was young, searching, and trying to be understood. When you don’t yet trust your craft, you compensate with volume. You say more than necessary. You reach for feeling instead of precision.

Over time, that approach started to feel dishonest not because the emotions weren’t real, but because they weren’t restrained. I noticed that the work didn’t age well. What felt powerful in the moment, felt exposed or exaggerated later. It didn’t leave space for the listener or reader to enter the work themselves.

Unlearning that changed everything.

I started to understand that depth comes from clarity, not intensity. That restraint often carries more truth than confession. That what you leave unsaid can be more powerful than what you explain.

Now, whether I’m writing or making music, I edit heavily. I remove anything that’s there to impress or to be seen. I focus on tone, structure, and intention. If something can be said simply, I let it be simple. If it needs silence, I give it silence.

The insight I came away with is this: real maturity in creativity is not about expressing more it’s about knowing what deserves to be expressed at all.

That lesson didn’t make me less honest. It made me more precise.

Can you share a story from your journey that illustrates your resilience?

There was a period in my life where almost everything I was building creatively felt like it was collapsing quietly rather than dramatically.

I had invested years into my music and writing with no real external validation no momentum, no breakthrough moment, no reassurance that it would “pay off” in a visible way. At the same time, I was dealing with financial strain and the weight that comes with trying to stay disciplined when results aren’t obvious. There were nights I sat alone rereading my notebooks, listening back to unfinished music, wondering if I was being responsible or just stubborn.

The thought that tested me the most was not about giving up completely, it was the much subtler question: What if this isn’t working and never will? That’s harder than obvious failure, because there’s nothing definite to fight against.

What resilience looked like in that season wasn’t inspiration or grind. It was routine. I kept writing when it felt pointless. I kept refining songs no one was waiting for. I chose structure over mood. Showing up at the same hours, editing instead of expressing, improving craft instead of chasing attention.

At one point, I seriously considered pausing my creative work altogether to “stabilize” my life in safer, more conventional ways. That was the crossroads. Not because stopping would have been wrong, but because continuing meant accepting uncertainty without guarantees.

I chose not to quit. And not just out of optimism, but out of clarity. I realized that my commitment wasn’t to outcome, but to integrity. I would rather build slowly and honestly than abandon something I knew mattered simply because it was not immediately rewarded.

The resilience wasn’t dramatic. No comeback arc. No sudden success.

It was quiet endurance.

That season reshaped how I work now. I don’t rely on motivation. I build systems for focus. I do not interpret silence as failure. And I don’t measure progress by applause.

The insight I carried forward is simple: resilience isn’t surviving one hard moment, it is staying present through long stretches where nothing seems to move, and continuing anyway.

That’s the kind of resilience my journey demanded.

Contact Info:

• Instagram: https://Instagram.com/moise_music
• Twitter: https://x.com/moise_music
• Youtube: https://youtube.com/@moise_music
• Other: https://open.spotify.com/artist/1QMWPzIxcd1bLmuOyM6XM1?si=Yf2Re4sxSnyI7zXi2WddMg