When I was 10, it was one of my daily tasks to practice piano. I still remember the texture of the dusty keys under my fingers. I enjoyed playing the piano and would find myself engaged and satisfied with the progress I was making through my piano book. However, for hours and hours every day, I would also watch YouTube on my iPad. One day, a small thought crept into my mind.

What if I didn’t practice today? I thought.

I knew at the time that I would feel more accomplished if I practiced. Being a pianist was part of who I was, part of my being. It gave me discipline. As time passed, my uneasiness slowly increased like a wolf stalking a deer. Finally, the moment I had begun to dread:

“Did you practice piano today?” asked Mom.

I could feel my heart knocking on my chest, and my face turned red. I replied with a simple yes while trying to sound calm, cool, and collected. It felt like an eternity before she responded with an okay. In a way, I was both lucky and unlucky that I got away with it on the first day.

Lying doesn’t stay simple. One day, I told my mom I was about to practice with no actual intention to practice. Then, I detected the quiet sound of footsteps, which got louder and louder. I rushed to the piano and started playing just before my mom got to the door. She entered the room and lay down on the bed, much to my confusion and rising panic.

“Umm… Mom? What are you doing?” I asked timidly.

“I am going to rest while listening to you practice. I enjoy listening to you practice,” she replied.

“I think I would practice better without anyone listening,” I said.

With that, I had deprived her of her rest and her enjoyment of listening to me practice. What was strange at the time was that when I rushed to the piano and started playing to avoid getting caught, I felt like a hole was being filled, like a piece of me had been restored, like I was reuniting with an old best friend.

Finally, on a day that I will always remember, the truth got out. “I don’t think you’ve practiced piano today, so go do that now before bedtime,” said my mom. I walked to the piano room, but continuing the facade, I went on my iPad and soon got sucked into what I was watching. Occasionally, I would glance over to the piano and feel a longing to break free of the chains that YouTube had on me. I remembered what it felt like to create music, what the keys felt like under my fingers, and how the frequencies used to fill the room. Yet, I continued giving in. Suddenly, I heard the creak of the door, and my heart felt like it both leaped out of my body and sank to the floor when my mom walked in, saw me, and understandably got very upset. What felt like my involuntary hiatus from piano had come to an end.

Later, I realized that it wasn’t as simple as me doing something I preferred more. I learned that my brain often likes to take the easy, less enjoyable path than the more challenging but more rewarding path. Most importantly, I learned that playing the piano is an integral part of my identity, and I will always come back to it no matter what the obstacle is.

© Nathaniel. All rights reserved. If you are interested in quoting this story, contact the national team and we can put you in touch with the author’s teacher.