At five years old I had my first piano lesson with my father by my side. He believes music is an instrumental part of a person’s life, hence, so did I. For me, the hour-long classes were a way of spending time with a father that did not live at home; for him, it was a way of trying to educate a girl who otherwise wouldn’t have learned about music or about life. As the years passed, I started to dislike the lessons. I found music repetitive and confusing instead of unpredictable and magical as my father had promised.

When I turned 12, I thought of dropping piano altogether. It wasn’t ‘cool’ to play it anymore, and so I thought I didn’t like it. It was only after my professor told me to reflect on this big decision that I figured out why I liked it before. My first lessons were interesting because I was learning something new. I just had to change the way I saw music: not as homework, but as art. Something that is born each day, not reiterated every time I sat in front of the piano. After that, I realized I wanted to quit just to prove I was independent and mature enough to make my own decisions. I hadn’t considered that it was my way to turn my insecurities, my dilemmas and my excitement into beautiful art.

I pulled my music away from methodical finger sequences and pushed it to wonderful story telling. I now use it as another way of sharing my deepest secrets, my most troubling feelings, as a way of creating myself a haven for a while. I not only see my Yamaha piano differently, but also how I perceive life; music turns everything into a pleasant challenge.

Music is meaningful because it has always been there; through the changes I’ve experienced, whether trivial or mountainous, joyous or heart breaking. Personally, playing music is another way of writing. The individual musical notes don’t matter; the meaning behind them consists on the interpretation you give them when blending theory and emotion.