Don't Drop the Guitar: A Lesson From Sinners to Pursue Your Purpose
By Nina Orm
"Sammie! My son has felt the call of sin. But the good Lord calls upon us to be fishers of men who sin, and show them the way. And show them the way. I want you to swear to me and before this congregation to leave those sinning ways where they lie. I want you to promise right now. Drop the guitar, Sammie. In the name of God! Let it go, Sammie. Put it down."
We’ve all experienced that moment from Sinners. The pressure of the outside world to fall in line with what’s considered a “normal life”—as defined by people who never dared to entertain the “what if?” The plea, even from those closest to us, to pack it up. To abandon the siren call of your desires. To walk away from the potential of your greatness.
For those who haven’t seen the film (spoiler alert), this moment is a scene between a preacher and his son, known in the community as Preacher Boy Sammie. Set in 1930s Jim Crow Mississippi, Sammie lovingly plays the guitar and drapes himself in the Blues. The moment his obligations are complete, the guitar is in his hands. He’s known for it. It’s in him. But his father believes Blues music is the devil’s music—something that leads to sin, temptation, and ruin.
That opening scene is the clue to all the aftermath that follows, and it still lingers with me. Later, Sammie returns to church, bloodied and beaten. All that remains of his guitar is the neck—strings ripped, splintered. His father, as a man of God, welcomes him in and begins praying over him, urging forgiveness. Encouraging him to drop the guitar. To abandon the Blues. To resist the devil and his temptation.
This Saturn return, this entrepreneurial pursuit, this journey to greatness—it’s been no small feat. My guitar—my Blues—has been pioneering creativity as an asset class. Cultivating a creative infrastructure that outlives me. All while walking a path that’s tested every part of me: friends, family, finances, stability, certainty, doubt, faith, confidence, vision.
At first, I was frustrated by the lessons from life up until this point. They felt like learning guitar chords—difficult but conquerable. I believed that if you just kept showing up, success was inevitable. But now: I’ve finally met my match. I’ve found what I’ve searched for all 29 years of my life—purpose.
And purpose is not always glamorous.
All my life I’ve heard mixed reviews about whether people even have one. I’ve met plenty of skeptics—folks who believe life is just meant to be mundane. That your existence is reduced to a 9–5 income, maybe some kids, and, if you’re lucky, someone to cohabitate with. A storyline passed down, unquestioned. The sentiment of “that’s all she wrote” to a life that feels out of their control.
It feels like most people choose that path. But I don’t think it’s because they want to. As an eternal optimist, I don’t believe anyone truly defaults to that choice—they just chose what felt safe. Because the road to purpose is terrifying. It’s disguised as Hell. A trick of the devil to dissuade you from Enlightenment. From your soul’s own Garden of Eden.
But the guitar is always there.
You can always pick it back up—if you choose.
Sammie’s purpose was becoming a Blues musician. You could feel it in the way he played. The ease. The mastery. The sacredness of it all. It’s as if he was born to do this. A bonafide natural. His talent so transcendent, it summoned ancestors from both the past and future—offering a veil of golden protection to anyone nearby. Because that’s what purpose is. The culmination of ancestral greatness, packaged in your present-tense, angelic existence. Honoring your purpose is honoring the legacy that brought you here.
Creativity is my purpose.
Connection to the intangible is my skill.
Clarity is my divine gift.
I’ve felt the call since childhood. It’s easy to miss your calling when it comes as naturally as breathing. But when I practice, when I truly show up in that calling, it’s like I’ve done it for millennia. Like I’m channeling something far beyond myself.
Operating in the creative space is walking my God-given path.
And that path? It’s about building a new world. One where no one has to compromise their divine calling for the mundane. One where soul desires aren’t cast aside in service of the devil’s jest—the denial of Eden. A world where The Agora Fund becomes a sacred investment vehicle for the creative class. Where Orm Muse Collective becomes the Harvard of the arts for those curious enough to seek truth. Where I get to walk back onto an exchange floor—maybe the New York Stock Exchange—but this time, for my own company. Not as an observer, but as a symbol.
A symbol that anything is possible.
A beacon for anyone who relates to me—through race, religion, gender, or socioeconomic background—that their purpose is protected. As long as they hold onto that guitar.
I’ve lost a lot along the way. A career I thought was meant for me. The perceived safety that came with it. An entire version of myself. I thought I was confident. I thought I had it figured out. I was, truthfully, pretty satisfied with what life had handed me up until that point. I had loved and lost, traveled the world, been embraced by community.
But God, the Universe, Source—it had something better.
I’m just a woman. What the hell do I know?
Friends I thought would be there during the celebrations vanished. Projection from others became routine. My bank account dwindled so low, my card got declined for the subway. Anxiety crept in about how to pay rent—forget eating. I was surviving off stress, popcorn, and Babybel cheese.
The Upper East Side apartment I once manifested became my own personal hell. Nothing like sharing space with people who toss out racial slurs, microaggressions, and their own insecurity while you’re trying to build destiny.
I didn’t renew the lease.
I didn’t have a backup plan.
I just knew I had to get out.
Poppies don’t grow in darkness.
And I’ll be damned if I forget that lesson again.
Later in Sinners, we see Sammie playing in the juke joint—his music finally unrestrained. But that power? That light? It draws vampires. Dark spirits that want to devour it. Or worse—reclaim it for their own twisted use. They try everything to rob him of his purpose: his safety, his voice, his instrument.
They do everything to get him to drop the guitar.
I’ve had my own vampires. They’ve come in every shape and size. Sometimes they wore the face of loved ones. Sometimes they showed up in rooms I once dreamed of entering. But I learned: vampires are part of the journey. It’s disguised as Hell, remember?
I’ve been metaphorically beaten—mentally, emotionally, spiritually. And sometimes, the ones trying to drain you are people you once celebrated with. But in order to keep going, you have to protect yourself. You have to kick them out the juke.
Even when their fangs are near, I lift the neck of my guitar, swing hard, and baptize myself again in the faith of success.
I’m writing this from my friend AJ’s apartment in Washington Heights. Driving in my late cousin’s car, holding the neck of a guitar—not sure what the next day holds.
I may not make it to the next county.
I may wind up a local drunk.
But I know how this ends.
Sixty years from now, I’m in a bar in Chicago.
A success.
Not just to the world, but to myself.
Because by then, I’ve inspired millions. I’ve built cultural legacies. I’ve platformed visionaries. I’ve married the love of my life. I’ve raised three children who never knew the weight of generational curses. I’ve created a world where we all exist safely, fully, joyfully.
And I’ll have become the North Star I once searched for.
I’m never dropping my guitar.
And I suggest you don’t drop yours either.
Written by:
Nina Orm
NINA