I met the prerequisite of being able to play the Twinkle Variations, although I’m still not quite getting the elbow hinge technique on the sixteenth notes—my whole 45-year-old arm bandies about in defiance of my still-healing rotator cuff injury.

Absurdly, I feel really cool walking down the street, through the doors, and into the classroom with the cello on my back. I sometimes pretend I am a “real cellist.” This is ridiculous, but fun.

I am the most beginner student in the class. I am seated next to someone who played all through high school and is returning to the cello. His review is my Mt. Sinai.

I am keeping up with the class, even if just barely. Thankfully, I can read music and keep time. I cannot yet do an extension or change strings without hesitation and scratching, but—baby steps.

It’s helping me a great deal to play with others who are more experienced. My intonation is slowly improving, and my confidence has increased as I get through pieces without stopping. Plus, it’s super fun to play with others.

My teacher suggested we all play together for the upcoming adult recital. I’m all for it, as I’m in a season of embarrassing myself. My classmates seemed less enthused.

I will, of course, perform a solo at the recital. ‘Tis the season. I’m not sure yet what I’ll play, but Go Tell Aunt Rhody is in the mix. One of my piano colleagues will accompany me, which is hilarious.

As I tackle new goals, I’ve tried my best to stay open to the experience. Ye olde perfectionism rears its ugly head once in a while, but it doesn’t stay long. I’m having too much fun. Almost every piece I play ends with laughter, and it’s such a relief to mess up so much.

Many of the adult piano students I teach are interested in my cello journey. I find I relate better to their struggles now that I’m a beginner again. I’m committing to the recital in the hopes of being an example—we can share music that is less than perfect, and have fun doing it.

In the meantime, I sauntered over to the piano this weekend for the first time in a long while. I played a little Chopin. For a few minutes. Just to see.

I can’t wait to play the cello. I think about it while it lies waiting. Just knowing it’s there builds excitement. Heck, I’m even using words like “play” instead of “practice.”

How did I get here? How did a burnt out piano teacher become the charmingly enthusiastic adult student?

I think it’s about space.

When I was a kid, the piano was my space. It was where I went to be alone, have my feelings, and even express them if I could get my hands around a piece. It was time just for me, without having to worry about anyone else. I didn’t know it at the time, but the combination of technical problem-solving and creative self-expression was a perfect fit.

With a penchant for wanting to help others, it made sense I became a piano teacher. It was the thing I was best at, and I could help others do it too.

At some point—between the degrees and the academic job—I lost that feeling I had as a kid. Playing the piano was the last thing I wanted to do after a long day of talking about it and listening to others play it. At home, I didn’t even want to hear the piano. If I had a chance to be alone or express myself, I’d reach for a journal or draft one of my bazillion essay ideas.

Well-intentioned family members bought me piano swag for holidays. Folks I’d meet asked if I could play Billy Joel’s “Piano Man.” One enthusiastic uncle always greeted me with air fingers.

I felt like a fraud.

I can’t emphasize enough that I never fell out of love with teaching piano. It was the playing that lost its luster. I tried everything—resurrecting my favorite piece (Chopin’s Fourth Ballade), making a bucket list of cool pieces to learn, taking pop lessons.

The feeling persisted.

I’ve wanted to play the cello for a long time. I thought it was just a typical pipe dream. But maybe I was on to something. Maybe I was craving that space I had always relied on.

Now I have it again. Last week after a hard day, I reached for the cello. Another day I decided, the taxes can wait. The routine comforts me—removing it from its case as the smell of wood overtakes me, finding my posture, reaching for the bow. I love the feel of the cello against my body. I go through all of my songs, usually playing them twice (hello, 1987 Laura!). When I get to Twinkle Variation E, I go as crazy as one with my limited skill can, wildly running through the sixteenth notes, pretending I’m a REAL CELLIST!

And somehow, just like I used to, I return to reality a bit lighter, more grounded, and ready for whatever it is I should have been doing in the first place.

As I told a friend over breakfast one day, choosing the cello is my new practice.

If only Snowball agreed.

All true. But it’s more than that.

At some point, I fell out of love with playing the piano.

“But you’re a piano teacher!”

Exactly.

I started to feel the first inklings after graduate school. Exhausted and burnt out, it felt great to take back those four hours a day of practicing to do other things—join a book club, workout, and (I’m just gonna say it) focus on dating. (Bottom line: No cute guy was simply going to appear outside the practice room door.)

I missed the structure my degree programs provided. Weekly lessons were invigorating as my teachers helped me dig into my repertoire. Regular performance classes challenged me to face my stage fright, and it was fun to connect with my peers.

I tried to recreate these things. I continued taking lessons. I scheduled performances to hold myself accountable, including chamber and duet recitals to build the connection I was missing.

All of it kept me practicing, but if I’m being honest with myself, none of it felt fun.

Of course, as an ambitious 20-something, I wasn’t aware of this. I wanted to become a college professor, so I kept performing. As I finished my doctorate and began applying for positions, performance fell further into that murky space of obligation.

There were moments I enjoyed. Collaborating with others. The thrill of facing fear. The joy in the audience. All beautiful reasons.

So why couldn’t I just love it?

Midlife, I embarked on a major change. I left academia in pursuit of a quieter life doing what I love. Now it’ll happen, I thought. I’ll fall in love with playing again.

I revisited Chopin’s Ballade No. 4, one of my favorite pieces. I started the first Ballade, which was on my bucket list. I took pop lessons with a friend and belted Sara Bareilles and Sarah McLachlan in the rare moments my husband and daughter left the house.

I still wasn’t feeling it, and I was incredibly frustrated.

So one day late last year, I thought: It’s time. I finally gave myself permission to let the piano go for now.

It might sound sad. For me, reader, it was thrilling. It was like an enormous weight lifted off my shoulders. I didn’t have to play. I was free.

I want to make it clear how much I love teaching the piano. In lessons, the joy flows—the fun of making music together, the puzzles of technique and musicality, the thrill of holding space so a student can discover what they’re capable of.

I missed those feelings in my own music-making, and I wanted them back.

So I embarked on cello lessons a few months ago, and I’m so glad I did. I haven’t felt this way since I was a kid. I love practicing. I can’t wait to get to the next song. I can’t wait to get to the next book! I don’t know where it leads and if I’ll find my way back to the piano. I just know it’s a relief to enjoy making music right now in this very moment with no obligation lurking. In my busy life as a parent and teacher, it’s time and space that’s just for me. What a gift that is. I am profoundly grateful.

That’s why I play the cello.

Nothing quite clicked. And then it occurred to me:

I’m not having enough fun.

I love writing. I love sharing stories about my musical journey in the hopes it touches others. And if mindfulness finds its way in, even better.

So this seems like the perfect space to share my journey as an adult beginner cello student.

Why would I—a pianist, recovering academic, and busy parent—take up the cello mid-life?

Oh, there are so many reasons.

And though it’s only been a few months, the cello has brought me a tremendous amount of joy and fulfillment while at the same time making me a better teacher and musician.

I’m still The Liberated Musician in my work as a piano teacher and performance coach. If you’re interested, you can check out my site and the weekly Mindful Monday newsletter, which offers strategies for musicians to improve their relationship with practice and performance.

But here, I’ll share stories as The Accidental Cellist.

If you’ve ever started over, tackled something new, or completely embarrassed yourself…er, sought beginner’s mind, I hope this will be a space to find camaraderie and a good laugh.

It seems like I found a gateway to my own liberated musicianship, and I want to tell you all about it.

I suggested we can work with fear and uncertainty and move past self-doubt in order to open our hearts to our audience.

But there’s a follow-up question I think every musician can ask too.

What is your stage?

For some musicians, the stage is a literal space from which they shine and share their gift with others. I’d venture a guess that you’re reading this newsletter because you’ve been on either side of that exchange. Or maybe you’ve been both a performer and an audience member at times, giving or receiving from a stage.

Yet not everyone finds themselves on stage, and not at all times. I performed often in the past, but this season of life looks different.

So what are my stages right now?

🎹 Teaching is a stage for me. I aim to hold space for my students and draw from what I know to offer them what they need in that moment.

✍🏻 This and other writing projects feel like a stage. Interestingly, this stage is the scariest right now—there’s no place for my voice to hide!

👧🏻 Motherhood is my ultimate stage. Every day it reminds me that regulating myself is the first step toward being all my daughter needs me to be.

All of these stages present challenges, including plenty of fear, self-doubt, and uncertainty.

And they are all relationships I continuously work on, in the hopes that my heart remains open so I can give to others.

What are your stages?

What goes through their minds? What do they struggle with? What’s been helpful?

What I’ve learned so far has been fascinating:

• Professional performers experience imposter syndrome just like the rest of us.

• Mental resilience is key. They recover quickly from setbacks and cultivate this skill intentionally through reflection, meditation, or therapy.

• Relational dynamics are critical to one’s mental state in performance.

As I prepare for additional interviews, I’ve been reflecting on how to start the conversations. “What are your mental struggles onstage?” is so vast and negatively biased (although I love that it gets a hearty laugh, followed by a long explanation!).

Luckily, my meditation practice was there to help. Reflecting on how mediation has helped me relate more skillfully to my thoughts and feelings, a new question dawned on me: What is your relationship to the stage?

It’s gentler, an open invitation. And it implies that we can improve how we relate to our stage, whatever it might be.

We can work with fear. We can work with self-doubt. And if the stage has been a place of fear and uncertainty, we can reframe it as a space from which, with open hearts, we offer others a gift.

What is your stage? And what is your relationship to it?

See, every year I find myself chuckling at the influx of new year’s emails—reflecting on the ups and downs of last year, special offers capitalizing on fresh starts, and the ever-confusing goal-setting tips vs. impassioned pleas to abandon goals.

For me, the holidays are just another odyssey to survive.

Perhaps it’s the season of life (parenting a young child), travel, or the inevitable illness I get every year. But I enter the holidays like the excited little girl I once was and exit it like a disgruntled crank.

So there was only one question (by Terri Cole) that caught my attention: What crap are you leaving in 2025?

Great! I thought. Let’s talk about the crap!

I’m a journal person, so when things finally slowed down, I took some time to reflect on it. I realized there were old thought patterns I keep hanging onto that could be holding me back, like feeling unseen and unheard or that my voice doesn’t matter.

It was a relief. I didn’t have to jump into the year, think about achieving things, or pretend to be energized. I could just let some stuff go.

The question invigorated me, and eventually led me to look ahead. I came up with a word for 2026, a fun exercise I like to try every January (and forget by February). It’s simple:

Forward.

No matter what’s happening—in my little world or outside of it—I’ll keep going. Whether excited or disgruntled, exhausted or energized, there’s only once choice, right? We just move forward.

While I’ve let the inner crank shine a bit here, I do want to add: I’m so thankful for my meditation practice, which, on a good day, helps me respond more skillfully to thoughts and feelings, and, on a bad one, just gets me to slow down a little.

What practices help you? How are you shifting into 2026?

To moving forward,

Laura

A householder is a layperson, or non-monastic. Their goal is to apply what they gain in meditation practice to "post-meditation." In other words, they aim to be more present and aware amidst the responsibilities of daily life.

Yes! I thought. That's my lane.

I've struggled with impostor syndrome as a meditator. I still smash spiders, eat meat, and whip out a heavy dose of NJ sarcasm every once in a while. Could I possibly ever become a real Buddhist?

(Update: This morning I coaxed a giant spider from the kitchen to the front stoop. It was terrifying. I'm making progress.)

I'm still figuring out if I can be a Buddhist. But I'm already a householder.

I see the impact of my meditation practice on my life in seemingly small but significant ways.

I'm continuing to communicate better, especially about needs and boundaries (major new territory!). Pema Chodron's wise council, "Feel the feeling. Drop the story" is a daily refrain for moving through frustrations big and small. I even stopped fighting a decades-long battle and literally let my hair down so my natural curls can flow.

(If I'm gonna lean into the present moment with acceptance and non-judgement, that includes the hair!)

I feel like I'm living mindfully, and I've been filled with lots of positive energy and clarity.

It's been fascinating to observe the impact on my teaching.

I've been much more interested in helping students make their music come alive than in making corrections. My little ones have loved grabbing the highlighters to color the dynamics or making up storylines to accompany their pieces. A few brave adults are singing and dancing in the lesson. My students and I are having a lot more FUN.

And across the board, I'm communicating better with my students and their parents. I'm speaking from the heart.

Even when it's hard.

If mindfulness is a way of life, it's also a way of making music.

A meditation practice clears our minds, opens our hearts, and infuses our spirits. It helps us become our best selves, so that we can offer our best onstage, in the practice room, or in the teaching studio.

I believe we all have more gifts than we know. They might be waiting to be shared, buried under obstacles of our own creation.

Mindfulness makes us aware of these blocks. It gives us the courage to burst through them and offer our gifts to the world.

In her memoir Horror Stories, which bravely explores her mistakes and most vulnerable moments, singer-songwriter Liz Phair writes:

"Come walk down some dark and mysterious paths with me. Once your eyes adjust, you'll see that monsters are only mirrors. There is music in the creaking trees. Deep beneath our workaday world, we are all dreaming."

What gifts do you dream of sharing?

Let's be musical "householders."

Recently, I was creating a reel for Instagram. It was all about working with fear.

The truth is, I was in a miserable mood. I had reached a point of burnout from a long winter of being sick and falling behind. And that night, I had a gig that I regretted taking on.

I took a break for a moment. Breathed. And then I burst out laughing.

Here I was, making a reel about working with fear while entirely consumed by it.

Luckily I teach this stuff. I knew what to do.

I worked myself through three steps that have worked for me and my students:

1. Relax the body and mind
For me, this means settling into my meditation posture and doing at least a few minutes of mindfulness awareness meditation. For many folks, it means taking a deep breath. There are many ways to access calm. You can do what works for you.

2. Open your heart
I ask myself, How is my work serving others? In simpler terms, I remind myself it's not about me. My daily gratitude practice helps keep this intact.

3. Access confidence
I like to think of this as 1) appreciating myself and 2) knowing that whatever I need, I already have within me.

No surprise—it worked. The gig went well and was actually fun. And I made an observation I've made many times before:

Teaching is an incredible comfort.

Teaching is not about us. No matter what's happening in our own lives, we're charged with creating a space for students. One in which they can express themselves authentically and with joy.

This quote from Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche occupies an important place in my journal: "You are not the star of your world."

In the midst of my exhaustion, I had forgotten this. I felt sorry for myself—the long winter of continued illness and the various setbacks that followed. I am grateful my students helped me remember.

As the Dalai Lama put it: "If you want to be happy, think of others. If you want to be unhappy, think of yourself."

It's not about me. What a relief.

In order to open our hearts and connect with our students and audiences, we must first appreciate ourselves. This level of self-kindness can be really difficult, as we're usually quite hard on ourselves.

Here are a few simple exercises I like to help musicians with self-appreciation:

1. Check-In
It’s simple. How am I doing? Mentally, physically, emotionally? What do I need right now? It continues to astonish me how often I forget to do this.

2. What Would a Friend Say?
This one was popular among college students, and it works for my 8-year-old daughter too. If you catch yourself with a negative thought, turn it around: What would a friend say?

3. Kind Self-Talk
Practice speaking to yourself kindly, as you would a friend. Sure, it might feel weird at first. We're not used to it. Keep at it. Notice how it feels (see "Check-In," above).

If we don't appreciate ourselves, how can we fully connect with our students and audiences?

I hope you find many ways to appreciate yourself.

I’ve always had a fascination with performance anxiety. That’s why, as a student attending one of my first professional conferences, I was so excited to see a panel session on the topic.

This is my jam, I thought.

For the final question, the panelists were asked for their top strategy to combat performance anxiety.

I steadied my notebook and poised my pen, ready for wisdom bombs.

The first panelist grabbed the microphone. They paused. I remember they seemed unsure. “Be able to play the left hand from memory,” they said.

My heart sank.

I was already practicing strategies like this, and I was still terrified.

Was that really all there was to it? Playing hands alone from memory?

I didn’t know what was missing, but I knew it had to go deeper than that.

I read every book I could and tried all the strategies. Let your nerves work for you. Eat a banana before the recital. You’re nervous because you care.

None of it worked.

Many years later, I began meditating to cope with personal stress. Several years after that, I gave my first solo performance since taking up meditation.

It was an entirely new experience.

I wish I could tell you I was less nervous. I wasn’t.

But I was more present. I wasn’t fixated on mistakes I had made or focused on getting to the end. I was hearing and feeling every note I was playing. My senses were more vivid than ever, and my focus was razor-sharp.

The best part?

All of these sensations were stronger than the fear.

I knew I had to continue down the meditative path. And I had to share this transformative practice with my students.

Playing hands alone from memory is certainly useful. And I’ve seen many a banana backstage.

But I know in my heart—none of it is a match for sitting quietly with your own mind and learning to work with fear, not against it.

There were so many thoughts. Am I doing this right? What am I doing? Will this help me? I’m hungry. And on and on.

How was I supposed to stop all these thoughts?

I wasn't.

To my great relief, I learned that this wasn't the point. In fact, it wasn't even possible. Instead, I was invited to observe my thoughts, like clouds passing through the sky.

It's a daily practice, one I've been at for more than twelve years. And no one keeps me more in line than my six-year-old daughter.

Just this week, Olivia said, "Mom, don't be mad. I had the thought that you don't appreciate me."

These moments used to floor me. But I've grown used to them. Olivia is a sharer who loves to discuss her thoughts and feelings. (Note: She nicknamed our guest room "The Talking Room.") I took a deep breath and settled in.

I asked her to say more. She explained that when I told her it was time to go to bed and stop talking about her (very elaborate) plans to open a "Calming Station" at our local music school (how cute-and wise-is that?), she felt unappreciated.

Deep breath.

I explained how much I appreciated her enthusiasm and deep care for the students. I told her how excited I was to work on the Calming Station with her. I suggested we talk more about it tomorrow, so that our minds could relax before bedtime.

Then we took our hands and drew a line up to the sky.

Why?

This is how Olivia and I practice letting go of our thoughts. We pretend they're attached to a balloon. We set it free, tracing its route up to the sky, watching it float away.

Musicians need balloons too.

How often do you catch yourself lost in thought while making music? Here are some of my gems:

"Oh no, here comes that spot!"

"What's for lunch?"

"I'm hot."

"I'm cold."

"Am I a good enough pianist?"

From the mundane to the profound, our thoughts can distract us from making music mindfully and with joy.

Mindfulness provides an alternative.

Through meditation practice, I learned to let thoughts come and go, to observe them without attachment, and even to get curious about them. My mind often feels like a just-shaken snowglobe, but I've learned to watch the glitter settle. It's just human nature, after all.

And that's the key.

This is how our minds work. Compassion for ourselves helps us relax so that we can respond to our thoughts with curiosity, openness, and a lighter touch.

Imagine how it would feel to make music this way. With a calm mind, our technique flows effortlessly, our confidence soars, and our hearts open to our audience.

To more balloons for all.

I’ve never liked the expression, “Pull yourself up by your bootstraps.”

While we all need motivation sometimes, it’s a pet peeve of mine when feelings are invalidated.

I’m a feeler. And I’m protective of those feelings.

“Bootstraps” annoys me. I file it in the same folder as, “It’ll be fine,” “Cheer up!” or “Have you tried yoga?”

I’ve been delving deeper into the enneagram, and while I’m still not sure if I’m a 1 or a 4, I know I’m a feeler and a thinker. I could get lost in my feelings for hours, thinking about them, having feelings about my thoughts, and thinking more about those feelings about those thoughts.

It’s exhausting. Just ask my husband.

Recently, on this podcast with enneagram teacher Suzanne Stabile, she explained that we all have a preference to think, feel, or do. But we need a balance of all three.

That’s it, I thought. I don’t “do” enough.

Crazy, right? I’m a working mom for heaven’s sake.

But here’s my confession: When I’m “doing,” I’m often looking at the clock, waiting for the doing to be over so I can delight in “being” again.

Enter lungta.

In Tibetan Buddhism, lungta translates to “wind horse.” It is a positive internal energy inspired by the strength, endurance, and dignity of the horse. It can literally be translated as riding our breath toward our life essence.

Over the past couple weeks, I battled a nasty head cold. I missed trick-or-treating with my daughter and just made it through a performance of Shostakovich’s Concertino for two pianos.

Oh, how I wished I could just check out. But after a day’s rest, I felt a bit better. There were Halloween cupcakes to be baked, lessons to be taught, Shostakovich to be mastered.

Lungta!

Somehow, plugging away through the week actually helped. I rested in the mornings, taught in the afternoons. When I had energy, I practiced. When I didn’t, I paused.

Paying attention to my body and giving it what it needed made me feel positive. I improved a bit each day.

Lungta!

One of my daughter’s favorite TV shows is about wild animals. The main characters wear “creature power suits” that turn them into wild animals with special powers. When they put the suits on, they–and Olivia–yell, “Creature power!”

Creature power! Lungta!

Yell what you like. You won’t believe this: It works.

My “doing” is more energized and joyful. I hung the above photo in my office to remind me that I can access this positive energy whenever I need it. I started new repertoire just because it’s fun. And I had a blast performing the Shostakovich (thank you, cold meds and cough drops).

And my “being?” It’s more relaxed, less hindered by thoughts about my to-do lists. I’m learning to respect the being. I need it for the doing.

Maybe there is a case for those pesky bootstraps after all.

Are you a feeler, thinker, or doer? Which is your preference, and which could you use more of?

To a balance of all three. To lungta.

We've all been there, right?

This obligatory feeling still haunts me sometimes. Lately it's crept up again. And certainly frustration doesn't help. Expectation leads to suffering, right?

When sharing my woes with a pianist friend, he remarked:

"Maybe there is another need that is not being met."

Cue a week off with my six-year-old daughter.

Running over life-size Jenga blocks at The Strong National Museum of Play was surprisingly invigorating. As were merry-go-rounds, shopping for "fabulous clothes," according to Olivia, and long afternoons at the pool.

So, what's the answer?

How can musicians access joy like a six-year-old?

Spoiler alert: With a mindful approach, there are no answers. (Boo.)

But there is always a path.

Consider this from Tibetan Buddhist master Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche:

"Ordinary effort is based on thinking, 'It is a good thing for me to perform this duty.' That makes things very boring and extremely unsuccessful in the long run.

The purpose of patience is to overcome such achievement orientation, or aggression.

So you should be simply mindful, purely mindful, with nothing further being implied."

How often do we approach our practice with achievement orientation? Are we aware it is a form of aggression? How can we be purely mindful?

Mindful practicing is key for musicians to access joy.

Since my week of adventures, I've (re-)approached practice with openness, curiosity, and no particular goal (gulp!). It never fails to return me to the pleasure of practicing I enjoyed as a child.

I often remind myself that the Sanskrit translation of mindfulness is "to remember."

I'm off to the piano now, in fact. To remember my joy.

“Feel the ground. Feel the sky. Feel your heart. Shoot.”

I was enthralled by this. So simple and so enormous at the same time.

Four steps that seemed to capture everything about mindfulness. I could not stop thinking about it.

I’ve been trying to figure out how to teach beginning mindfulness meditation for some time now. Though my journey as a practitioner has quite a way to go, I know that the insights I have experienced so far and the depth of clear seeing into my mind and heart don’t happen on the first try.

It takes work. It takes courage. And it’s been a challenge to break that all down for beginners.

I’ve been asked to present on the topic to music teachers over the years. So I had finally settled on a curriculum of sorts. One practice each—for body, mind, and heart. Followed by discussion: How was that for you? How can this help your music-making?

It felt pretty good. I kept tweaking it. The body emerged as the critical first step. The language in my instructions got clearer. I became more confident delivering them and allowing space for students to share their own experience without interjecting mine.

But I wasn’t addressing that last part: “Shoot.”

And, as always, that’s because I hadn’t figured it out myself yet.

I left an academic career behind over two years ago with a mission: I wanted to bring this skill to musicians. I wanted them to be kinder to themselves, so that they could heal themselves and others through their music-making.

It’s been…interesting. It’s not easy to put something like this into words. And it’s not exactly something people line up around the block for.

I’ve made some progress. I have a few students now who are benefitting from this approach. I’ve gained resilience by trying—and failing—at several online offerings. I’ve honed my chops as a meditation teacher through workshops and a beginner class at Cornell.

But I wasn’t really owning it yet.

When people ask me what I do, I tell them I’m a piano teacher. It’s easier than explaining all of the above.

When they tell me I’m brave for leaving academia, I wonder if it’s just the privilege of a supportive partner and our family’s health that allowed me to do it, with a dash of insanity.

When doubt barrels in, I head over to higheredjobs.com and wonder…should I?

I started working with an integrative health coach this fall. The timing was impeccable: I was at my wits end with migraines when a friend recommended her.

One of my assignments was to take a values assessment test. My top value?

Honesty.

Ugh, I thought. Boring. Wouldn’t it have been cooler to get vitality, energy, or joy? At least my migraines were getting better.

Along the way I connected with an old student and friend who had become a social media influencer. We’re bartering piano lessons for social media help. His first observation?

“There’s no YOU in your posts.”

And last week, I brought a question to the beloved Suzanne. Should I keep the title, Rhapsody in You Meditation & Piano Studio? Is it clear enough?

Well, she offered, there are usually two reasons you doubt a title. Either it’s not the right one, or you haven’t owned it yet.

I was dumbfounded. The same message. Three times.

What was I not being honest about? What was I not owning?

In short, what the hell was I missing?

For over two years, I have felt the ground, felt the sky, and felt my heart over and over again.

But I haven’t taken a shot.

My Dad always said I was a good “sixth man” in basketball. That’s someone who’s not part of the starting five, but a solid and reliable player who’s the first to sub in.

Fine for a high school hobby. But I was still sitting on the bench when I should have been on the floor.

I know I’m not alone. We all have ways we can step up, own it, get in the game.

We all have shots we can take.

So here’s what I did:

I wrote a letter of introduction that finally owns my breadth of teaching experience and the name of the new studio I’d like to build. I sent it to 58 people.

There is nothing particularly exciting about this. But for me, it’s the culmination of over two years of stepping into confidence and several more months of gathering the courage to vocalize my plans.

It’s telling myself, who cares what anyone thinks. This is who you are.

My bow has been drawn for a long time, and man, it felt so very good to shoot.

Many arrows remain in my quiver, but I’m warmed up now. There’s no going back.

So here’s my proposal: let’s ignore the new year’s challenges in our inboxes.

We can eat better, exercise regularly, and even meditate more anytime.

For now, let’s just finally take the damn shot.

What’s the worst that can happen? With the ground beneath you, the sky above you, and your heart in tune, you have a triple safety net.

If it doesn’t work, you’ll bounce back and try again.

That’s mindfulness. You can always take another shot.

The excitement of learning to play an instrument. The soothing routine (for me) of playing every song three times. The thrill of getting better.

My first favorite piece was an 8-bar song called “Rock-a-Rama.” I played it over and over. I loved how it sounded, the reliable beat of it. I felt cool. When I could play it without music, I was elated.

Through childhood and into high school, the piano was a balm for me. It was a place to express my big feelings, which I had no idea what else to do with.

So I’d hit the bench and free myself there, from Rock-a-Rama to Les Misérables to Chopin Nocturnes.

It culminated in a performance of Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue with a community orchestra in college. It was a blast, and one of the highlights of my piano life.

But something changed after that.

I was now a SERIOUS MUSICIAN. I had a degree to finish and another one to earn. I needed to start a piano studio. Looking around me, it seemed like more accomplishment was the way to get there.

So I followed the trail. I attended conferences and eventually gave presentations. At 24, I landed two part-time jobs teaching college, where I fell in love with the students and the promise of higher education. I got another degree so I could do it full-time.

It’s not that I didn’t enjoy all of this. I did. I loved my teachers. I loved teaching. But my joyful playing just sort of…fizzled.

Now that I was SERIOUS, I gave solo recitals or collaborated with other serious musicians playing serious music.

Along the way, I wondered why I would get in the car and blast classic rock or listen to my favorite singer-songwriters. My colleagues had SERIOUS CDS (yes, I’m dating myself) in their cars. Was I a little off?

I didn’t even stop and ask myself if I was having fun. I just followed the trail.

Perhaps it was a career transition and the personal transformation it enabled. Or maybe it was just mid-life. But I’ve been on a mission to recapture that joy.

With the help of a dear teacher (who once spent an entire lesson listening to me fumble through a pop song—a masterclass in holding space), I’ve been able to do just that.

I regularly revisit the Gershwin, find awe in Bach, and pretend to be Sara Bareilles when no one is around.

It’s no wonder that I teach with this big feeling, joyful approach, trying my best not to let the details get in the way. It’s how I started.

I keep thinking about this quote from trumpeter and conductor Stephen Burns. The first thing he asks new students is: “When are you happiest making music?”

When are you happiest? What brings you joy?

I hope you find just a little more of it.

It was the timing that made this seemingly simple statement so profound. I was about to embark on an interview for a tenure-track position I wasn’t sure I wanted.

Academic life was becoming a challenge, and I missed being with my family and the freedom of self-employment.

His words made an impact, and I have taken them to heart.

A new work life and schedule means more time with my family. Carving out time for the practices that feed me—meditation, journaling, exercise—means more energy to be there for those that need me. And that Zumba class this morning was a blast.

Grandpop also had a gift for curiosity. Simple things would strike him with awe, and he’d break into that infectious guffaw that I miss so much.

I’ve been reflecting on how to bring his joyful spirit into my teaching. What I’ve noticed is, if the student is enjoying themselves, I am too.

And isn’t that the point?

I was taught to teach a certain way. Warm-up, review pieces, new pieces, theory book. Focus on reading and the details in the score. Prepare all the nitty-gritty for the next performance. The occasional piece of student’s choice should cover the fun aspect.

How depressing!

Not all lessons work that way, because not all students, of course, are the same. One of my young students responds well to playful characters making suggestions. Another energetic young one likes to jump on the lines and spaces of a giant floor staff rather than using flashcards to identify notes.

One of my adults likes to play everything twice in the hopes of feeling better about it the second time. Another wants to focus on how everything feels in her body. And yet another likes the traditional way I learned to teach.

All of it is OK, because in my view, I’m there to facilitate their individual path.

A partner of mine in a recent teacher training used the phrase, “Can you discover…” when asking me to try new things at the piano. I loved this. It reminded me to stay on my own path of curiosity and discovery rather than waiting for him to provide answers.

In this interview with trumpeter, composer, and conductor Stephen Burns from the podcast Conversations with Musicians with Leah Roseman, Stephen shares that he no longer begins lessons with a new student by asking them their goals. Instead he asks, “When are you happiest making music?”

We can ask ourselves the same. When are we happiest making music, and when are we happiest overall?

I arrived home from teaching one night last week totally depleted. It was the end of a long week, and I felt I just didn’t nail it with a few students.

An email arrived from one of the parents. “Just wanted you to know… On the way home, [student] said, “Laura is the best teacher EVER!!!”

Another sweet and timely message. I’m grateful for these reminders that joy is, in fact, the point.

Both cars in the shop the day before a road trip? Just go with it. Tree on the roof after a lightning storm? Just go with it. All of us down with a stomach bug?

Just—sigh—go with it.

It took a good laugh at an old photo to help me see the wisdom in this phrase.

Why am I wearing giant monster feet? Why am I eating a chocolate bar early in the morning? Why does my baby brother have three bows on his head, and is someone keeping an eye on him?

My parents, apparently, nailed just go with it.

Married in their early 20s with three kids in six years to follow, they had to.

That lesson, however, has been harder for me.

I’ve always—to my detriment—believed if I just try hard enough, I can make things happen.

I excelled early on in school, was pretty good at piano, and fairly good at sports. All of these required effort, and that was fine with me. I loved the feeling of working hard until I got it.

I insisted on practicing all the little beginner pieces twice from the first day of lessons. I still remember the satisfaction of memorizing my first piece, Rock-a-Rama. I played it over and over, gleeful with accomplishment.

When my basketball coach put me at forward instead of point guard where I wanted to be, I knew I’d need a solid free throw. I put up 100 shots a day until I won the Knights of Columbus Regional Foul Shooting contest.

On and on I marched. Degrees. Jobs. Accolades.

Contentment? That’s another story.

I eventually left a stressful job in the hopes of living a happier and more meaningful life. Hilariously, I thought that would solve most of my problems.

It didn’t.

I’m humbled to admit that I want things to be my way. An Enneagram Type 1, I think there is a certain way people should act. I want them to do what I would do in a situation. I want them to show love in the way I would. When my feelings are strong, I think they should have them too.

This is, of course, ridiculous, because that’s not how it works.

Yet I still struggle.

There is a dream I have occasionally. I’m in the room with an old flame, but he doesn’t see me. I will him to notice me from afar, hoping he’ll feel the same way about me, but he never does.

The dream baffles me. Why would I, a happily married woman, dream about an old flame?

Finally the realization hit hard: I have this dream when things don’t go my way. When I’m trying too hard to make something happen that won’t. When I want to fit a square peg into a round hole.

That old flame was my first lesson, but I’m still learning.

In this morning’s meditation practice, I spent some time visioning what I want to offer the world in my short time here.

For the first time, I envisioned doing what I love with no expectation, achievement, or accomplishment. Just me, my family, and, I hope, a tiny contribution to the world.

And, at last, contentment.

To get there, I must practice non-attachment. Letting go of expectations for myself and others. Recognizing sooner when the square peg doesn’t fit.

Putting on my monster shoes.

And just going with it.

I know, it sounds like a lot. And it is. Problems with her knees led us to a growth modulation procedure last year, in which small plates were inserted to correct her alignment. This year, they were removed.

She was incredible.

Before the surgery, she said she felt “confident.” Hours after, she walked from her wheelchair around the car to sit on her usual side.

She was determined to go back to school three days later, and she did. When the teacher wanted to text us with an update, Liv refused to let her.

We had to convince her to take Tylenol several times. When shifting into place before bed one night, she said these words I’ll never forget:

“I may be weak, but I’m strong.”

I was nothing short of astonished. My 7-year-old daughter was giving a masterclass on courage.

I did my best to stay brave. By day, I talked through it with her and channeled my anxiety into making necessary preparations.

By night, I prayed everything would be OK. I called on my relatives who have passed to watch over her. I remembered the last words Uncle Joe said to me before he died: “Everything’s gonna be OK.”

The hospital staff were nothing short of amazing. The anesthesiologist who took his time explaining everything in detail and hearing our concerns. The pediatric behavior specialist who let Liv decorate her anesthesia mask with stickers. After they took her back, I burst into tears in my husband’s arms, unable to hold it all any longer. Andre, our main nurse, offered words of comfort.

In the days leading up to surgery, Liv had become fascinated with Kamala Harris. She wanted to rewatch her speech from the Democratic National Convention. She bought a ridiculous, light-up cowboy hat for our rewatch party. She demanded that she be able to vote.

The night before the surgery, I reminded her of what Kamala said: “Chin up. Shoulders back. Let’s go.”

Turns out I didn’t have to. My daughter is a total badass.

We all have this courage inside of us. I like to think of it as an eternal flame. No matter what, it can’t be extinguished. Even if it’s barely hanging on, it’s still there.

It can be accessed at any time, through meditation, prayer, a single deep breath.

Whether you need it onstage or in the operating room, it’s there. Waiting for you.

It never goes out, and it’s our superpower.

One night, Liv and I had this conversation:

“Mom, I wish I was as brave as you.”

“Honey, you’re braver than I’ll ever be,” I replied.

“Well,” Olivia pondered, “it was the 1940s.”

Even if you have to take a time machine, you got this.

I’m not sure what it is. Sure, I probably take it too personally. But it always feels invasive. As if I can’t be trusted to figure it out on my own. As if I’m not being heard.

In wellness spaces, there’s a lot of advice, and its contradictions make me nuts.

Meditate ten minutes a day. Nevermind. Just start with one minute. Or maybe five.

Habits take six weeks to form. Or maybe six months.

Your kids are in school now, so you’re out of excuses. That’s the time to meditate. But forgive yourself if you don’t get to it.

Do [insert magic thing] every day. But be kind to yourself.

Less frequently, we’re told to listen to ourselves. Maybe because it wouldn’t be profitable for the advice-givers?

Because that’s actually where the wisdom is.

Since my last post on dropping the summer “shoulds,” it seemed I was fed up with what others think. So I spent a lot of time reflecting on my own “shoulds.”

Let’s call them priorities, and I have only one each day:

Bring my nervous system down. At least for a few minutes.

That’s it.

I can do it in whatever way works. For one minute, ten minutes, hours. I can do inner work—meditating and journaling—or the physical work of moving my body or mindfully breathing through the latest headache.

The point is: It’s up to me.

Life looks different through this lens.

I’m bringing more awareness to my body and giving it what it needs—exercise, stretching, rest. Already my migraines are improving.

I’m more mindful of the energy I put out. For example, if I keep complaining about how tired I am, what impact does that have on my daughter? My husband? Our family dynamic over dinner? What nourishment could I offer myself instead?

Musically, my Tori Amos collection just arrived yesterday, and I’m already loving it. Who cares if I’m still afraid of shedding the “serious classical musician” schtick?

And my self-talk is gradually transforming. When complaining mind rears its ugly head, I use this phrase: “Back off. I got this.”

At first, I worried the phrase was too aggressive. Am I not mindful enough? Would a true practitioner have something more Zen-like to say?

But it’s working. And I suppose that’s the point of mindfulness, isn’t it?

I know my own mind, so I know what’s best for me.

What’s best for you? What do you need today?

Give it to yourself. And tell all the other voices to just back off.