I just watched the new Bob Dylan movie, and it’s fair to say it was as enlightening as it was painful. When you listen to Dylan’s music, it’s hard not to sense that he’s tapped into some timeless stream of consciousness—one that draws on wanderlust, truth-seeking, and a fierce sense of self. Watching the film, though, I kept thinking about how different his life has been from mine. It was a portrait of a young man launching himself into the unknown, propelled by little more than a guitar, a raspy voice, and a head full of poetry. Meanwhile, I spent my twenties trying to cobble together a fragile semblance of stability, wrestling with mental illness that threatened to eclipse me.
Bob Dylan’s story is practically the stuff of legend: a restless kid from Minnesota who showed up in Greenwich Village with no money, no real plan—just an unwavering drive to make music. In the movie, you see glimpses of his life on the road, drifting from one smokey venue to another, fueled by a stubborn faith in his art. The beauty in it is almost mythic: Dylan simply didn’t care if he ruffled feathers or swam against the tide. He just did it. He wrote songs that still echo across generations—“Blowin’ in the Wind,” “The Times They Are a-Changin’,” “Like a Rolling Stone.” Each one revealed some facet of his restless soul.
For me, there was no carefree drifting. My twenties were marked by hospital stays and therapy sessions—sometimes feeling like I was “Tangled Up in Blue,” only there was no catchy chorus to guide me out. When the movie cut to scenes of Dylan living off scraps, I reflected on how I couldn’t even manage day-to-day activities without substantial support. And yet, despite how jarring that comparison felt, something about his story made me feel defiant. There’s a line in “Like a Rolling Stone” that has always stuck with me: “When you ain’t got nothing, you got nothing to lose.” Watching Dylan embody that carefree, almost brazen attitude was a jolt—a reminder that maybe being too cautious and polite has its downsides.
Learning a Tougher Kind of Resilience
Mental illness taught me to be gentle with myself, to be patient and accommodating. But Dylan’s music and persona evoke a different kind of resilience—one that includes pushing boundaries, maybe even being a bit of a jerk if that’s what it takes to live authentically. When I think of my own journey, I see a person who has tried so hard to fit in, to not rock the boat, to be “the good patient.” It makes me wonder if that approach cost me some of my own creative fire.
Dylan, on the other hand, wasn’t afraid of alienating people or challenging the status quo. The fact that he once infamously went electric at the Newport Folk Festival—drawing both boos and awe—reminds me that real change often means disappointment for someone somewhere. There’s a lesson there: if you wait for universal approval, you’ll never really stretch yourself. You’ll never risk.
Reconciling Loss and Possibility
I won’t lie: this movie left me grieving the time I lost. My twenties vanished into a haze of recovery. I didn’t get to travel from city to city or busk on street corners while forging a name for myself. I was simply trying to stay alive, navigating medication changes and mental breakdowns. Watching Dylan’s youthful bravado, I felt a sting for the life I never had, the naive adventures I never took.
But maybe I needed to feel that pain to move forward. In “A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall,” Dylan sings about a harrowing landscape, yet there’s also an undercurrent of hope—that despite the dark realities, there’s a way to bear witness and keep going. I can’t rewind time to erase my hospital stays or the moments of despair. But I can see my future now, and it’s not bound by the same limitations. This movie reminded me that I can still embrace my own kind of wandering spirit, even if it looks different than Dylan’s cross-country sojourns.
Becoming Who I Need To Be
A key realization I’ve had is that sometimes you have to be a bit tougher to protect your own dreams. Dylan didn’t apologize for his ambitions; he wore them as a badge of honor. That kind of unapologetic drive might be what I need to cultivate in my own life. For too long, I’ve been asking for permission—permission to speak my truth, to have a bad day, to dream bigger than people think I should. Yet perhaps the best thing I can do, both for my mental health and my creative future, is to stop asking and start claiming.
Does this mean I’m going to become inconsiderate or push people away? Not necessarily. But it does mean recognizing that being too accommodating has sometimes stifled my voice. Mental illness is like a dark wave that can crash over you, swallowing your sense of autonomy. Perhaps learning to say “no,” or even “get lost,” is part of surviving—and thriving.
A New Chapter
Watching Dylan’s life unfold on screen struck a chord deep in me. Yes, it made me sad for what I missed, but it also lit a spark. I’ve realized there’s still time to define myself and do meaningful work, even if it starts a bit later than I’d hoped. I don’t have to pick up a guitar and backpack across the country, but I can channel that same indomitable energy into my own endeavors—writing, advocating, and being unafraid to ruffle a few feathers.
If Dylan’s songs tell us anything, it’s that transformation isn’t bound by the rules everyone else lives by. “The Times They Are a-Changin’” was an anthem urging people to get out of their comfort zones. And maybe that’s what I took away most from the film: the feeling that I’m overdue for a change. My mental health journey isn’t a chain keeping me tethered to the past; it can be the foundation for a stronger, more focused future.
I won’t pretend I can emulate Dylan’s path. My story is inherently different—crafted in doctors’ offices and therapy sessions instead of dim-lit coffeehouses. But if I can harness just a fraction of his nerve and willingness to be misunderstood, I might be able to create something that resonates just as powerfully in my own sphere. And who knows, one day I might look back on this era and see that my real blossoming began here, in the lingering echoes of Dylan’s raspy ballads, as I learned to carry my own voice without apologizing for it.
In the end, the movie reminded me that no path is straightforward, and greatness can take countless forms. Dylan had his harmonicas and an endless stream of lyrics; I have my experiences, my struggles, and a pen. Maybe all I needed was the right spark—like that of a brilliant, defiant young musician—to remind me that, even under the weight of mental illness, there’s still a fire worth stoking. And I plan to let it burn.
Author Info:
Max E. Guttman
Max E. Guttman is the owner of Mindful Living LCSW, PLLC, a private mental health practice in Yonkers, New York.
