Since as far back as I can remember, I was playing the cello for other people. Not for myself.
Lessons, teachers, my mom, competitions, orchestras, quartets. Always for someone. Always toward something. I kept going, kept practicing, kept showing up… even when I was never fully satisfied with what I heard coming out of me.
I loved performing. But even then, I was chasing something I couldn’t quite reach.
Through high school, I won talent shows and state orchestra competitions. I was doing everything I was supposed to do. Following the path. Moving forward.
I won more competitions later. I played the Saint-Saëns concerto with the Quincy Symphony. I won the WIU concerto competition twice, performing Kabalevsky and Elgar. On paper, it looked like I was becoming someone.
But you can hear it in the recordings. I was playing notes, not music.
And after those performances, I felt defeated. Every time. And I never understood why.
That’s not to say I never touched something real. There were moments, rare ones, where I played for myself. And when I did, it was incredible. Almost overwhelming. Like I had finally tapped into something honest and alive.
But those moments were too few across too many years.
Most of the time, I was playing for approval. For teachers. For expectations. For fear. And anyone who’s been in that world knows how harsh it can be. The moods, the criticism, the pressure. I had teachers who tore me down. I left lessons and rehearsals feeling humiliated, small, and broken. That followed me from junior high all the way through college.
And then I graduated in 1995 with a bachelor’s in music performance… and everything stopped.
No more structure. No more direction. No one telling me what to do next or how to build a life out of all of it. I had spent my whole life on rails, and suddenly they were gone.
I didn’t know who I was without it.
I fell hard. Spent years in bed after college. Depression, exhaustion, disappointment. I thought I was supposed to become someone. But no one ever showed me how, and I never learned how to fight for myself.
So I disappeared into it. Years turned into decades. No music. No drive. No joy. Just this quiet, heavy absence where something used to be.
Because who was I, if I wasn’t practicing for someone else?
I’m 54 now.
And for the first time, I’ve made peace with letting go of performing. Not because there were opportunities waiting, but because I can finally say it’s okay.
It’s okay to put it down.
And it’s okay to start asking a different question: what actually brings me joy?
Maybe it’s composing. Maybe it’s art. Graphic design. I don’t fully know yet. I’m still working on that. Still figuring out who I am without all the expectations that shaped me for so long.
But for the first time, that search feels honest.
I’ll always be a musician. Always a cellist. Always a composer in some way.
But maybe now… I finally get to be something for myself.
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