When I was younger, I had a mixed relationship with practicing my instrument. According to teachers and parents, this art was supposed to be a form of creativity and joy. However, for me, piano classes were always accompanied by dull hours of technique training, constant pressures of performing, and reprimands for not practicing enough. Everything else seemed more interesting the second I sat down in front of the keys. Heck, my family even joked that “grandma practices harder than I do”. Looking back, that statement is, unfortunately, pretty accurate.
I looked for reasons behind my reluctance. Maybe it was that I did not choose this hobby voluntarily, or that I did not see a clear purpose for staying consistent. However, what drove me away the most was probably my mindset. Whenever I failed to play a note, I felt anxious and disappointed. I would imagine the cold stare and the wooden stick knocking on my fingers, telling me to keep my hand posture, even if my teacher wasn’t around. Instead of breaking down a difficult part, I was completely paralyzed by anything challenging.
Slowly, the end goal became the only valuable thing. Not the journey, the excitement, the music… If I couldn’t do it perfectly, I should stop doing it altogether. I took all the criticism personally which definitely did not help (although, as a more mature person now, they were probably well-intended!).
Then came a pivotal moment in my musical career: the annual recital. As soon as it was announced, dread washed all over me. I felt so insecure, because I knew I hadn’t practiced enough to pull off my piece. On the day of the recital, I sat alone in fear, mentally pulling out every rhythm left in my under-trained piano brain. Just let me get through this, I thought.
Initially, everything was smooth sailing, to everyone’s surprise. Then came the chords. The very part I had brushed over again and again. This time, to no one’s surprise, I completely crumbled. The harder I tried to steer back, the further my musical train ran off the tracks. Even worse, because I panicked, I started forgetting everything that came after those chords. I started pressing random keys in an attempt to salvage my performance. Fun fact, it did not work. I should have known that.
After that incident, I developed a kind of phobia: fear of the piano. No, I developed the fear of performing, going outside of my comfort zone, and not being good enough. At thirteen, I packed my bags and moved to the U.S., leaving behind my old home and, coincidentally, the piano. Hey, the transition was a great excuse to quit!
Piano was pushed to the depths of my childhood memories until one afternoon in college. I was registering classes, but no matter how I adjusted my schedule, I had that stubborn, 2-credit gap to fill. As I filtered through the sea of courses, “piano basics” popped up. Enemies are bound to cross paths, they say. But this time, a spark of curiosity ignited within me. What if I pick it back up again? It seems genuinely interesting this time. Do I have what it takes, or will it end up just like before?
I decided to give the piano one more chance. In this period of self-discovery called “college”, I wanted to face something I had been afraid of, something beyond what I believed were my limits. Not only to break free from my mental barrier, but also to cultivate something I could genuinely enjoy. Just as importantly, I made a promise to myself: I am willing to face setbacks, work through difficulties, and stay patient when things are not perfect.
With this growth mindset, I became more motivated and consistent than ever. I found myself practicing with precision over speed, and truly enjoying the cherished works of many musicians. I proved to myself that I can be resilient and persistent. Simply put, I can do hard things.
My fear of performing has now also subsided, as I began to think less about how my playing would be received and more about how much I have improved. To date, I have been playing the piano for one and a half years. It may not seem like the most impressive feat, but I feel deeply fulfilled knowing I have stayed committed every day.
It is almost unimaginable that the very activity I once detested has become something I look forward to every day. I am beyond grateful for how piano entered my life, for my parents who first introduced me to this art, for my teachers who supported me through both praise and criticism, and for myself, for learning such a valuable lesson and finding the courage to break out of my shell.
I would encourage anyone reading to try something new. Even if it turns out to be a fleeting passion, so be it! Instead of black-and-white keys, perhaps you will find a baseball bat, a fountain pen, a paint jar… The possibilities are endless—as long as you are willing to look for them.