A philosophy

I believe music belongs to everyone.

Somewhere along the way, too many of us were taught otherwise.

Maybe someone told you to mouth the words instead of singing. Maybe you convinced yourself you didn’t have rhythm, weren’t musical enough, or had simply missed your chance. 

Maybe life became wonderfully full – with careers, families, responsibilities, dogs that needed walking, parents who needed you, and calendars that somehow filled themselves. Somewhere along the way, the music quietly slipped into the background.

Over the years, as a performer, educator, and retreat leader, I’ve met hundreds of adults carrying those stories. I’ve also had the privilege of watching those same people surprise themselves when they discover that making music isn’t about perfection – it’s about curiosity, connection, and giving yourself permission to begin.

I don’t believe music is reserved for the naturally gifted or the professionally trained. 

Music isn’t something we earn. 

It’s something we share.

Music doesn’t ask us to be perfect. It simply asks us to keep showing up – and occasionally to laugh when we play the wrong chord shape.

It connects us to ourselves, to one another, and to the world around us.

So I began asking a different question.

What if we created an environment where adults had the time, the space, and the support to truly reconnect with music – and with themselves?

Travel has always been one of my greatest teachers. It has shown me that sometimes the most meaningful growth happens when we step outside our routines and into a place that invites us to slow down.

That’s why every You Can Uke Retreat begins with the location.

I don’t choose destinations simply because they’re beautiful. I choose them because they’re restorative. Places where you can take a quiet walk beneath towering trees, sit with your morning coffee overlooking the ocean, breathe mountain air, or simply pause long enough to hear yourself think again.

Sometimes the best musical breakthrough comes halfway through a walk when you’re not trying so hard anymore.

I don’t see nature as a break from learning. I see it as part of the learning.

Nature doesn’t ask us to perform.

It simply invites us to be present.

When we slow down, something remarkable happens. We become more curious. We listen more deeply. We notice more. We begin to reconnect – not only with the natural world around us, but with ourselves. And from that place, music often begins to flow in ways we never expected.

I believe inspiration needs space.

These retreats are designed to create that space.

If you had asked me at twenty-two what music meant to me, I probably would have talked about performing.

Music had always been part of my life. I loved being on stage. I loved entertaining. I loved the energy of an audience and the joy of sharing something beautiful. I still do.

What I couldn’t have known then was that music would spend the next three decades quietly reshaping my understanding of what it was really for.

My path has never been a straight line.

Looking back, it makes perfect sense. Living it? Not always quite so much. 

It has wound through concert halls and theaters, classrooms and festivals, hospitality and entrepreneurship, moments of certainty and seasons where I stepped away from music altogether.

At the time, none of it felt like a master plan. It mostly felt like saying “yes” to the next interesting adventure and trusting I’d figure out the rest.

Looking back now, I don’t see those experiences as separate chapters. I see them as pieces of the same journey, each teaching me something new about music, people, and how to create spaces where others discover they belong in music.

Younger Marnie thought the destination was the stage.

Older Marnie knows the destination is connection.

Every stage I’ve stood on, every classroom I’ve taught in, every mile I’ve traveled, and every conversation I’ve shared has led me to this work.

The greatest privilege isn’t leading a retreat – it’s earning the trust of the people who choose to join me on the journey.