How Quitting Led to Beginning; A Mother & Daughter Journey to Self-Discovery

It was Kindergarten Round-up when my oldest daughter (now in 5^th grade) was offered the opportunity to learn a string instrument. Among the plethora of solicitations (“Buy a yearbook now and SAVE!” “Join PTA today!” “Don’t forget your child’s lunch account!”) we found ourselves at a table surrounded by various string instruments, except they were kid-sized versions—a miniature violin, a tiny cello, and a baby bass. The two women at the table enthusiastically told us about a special strings program the school offered to all its students, starting as early as kindergarten. The program required dedication, parental-involvement, and willing learners. They warned us, it wasn’t something to walk into lightly. I glanced down at my daughter; her eyes were wide and bright with excitement as she looked at the instruments, a smile playing at her lips. The two women, capitalizing on the obvious interest, introduced her to each instrument, playing a bit for her so she could hear the sounds and letting her pluck a string or two. My daughter immediately loved the deep sound of the viola and I loved hearing that odds of a scholarship for a violist were much stronger as there were a lot less viola players. “So, what do you think?” I asked my daughter. Immediately, without hesitation, she said, “I want to play the viola. Can I do it, mommy?” And so began our viola journey.

Over the next four years, we navigated the journey side-by-side. She attended a group class once a week and practiced at least four times a week at home. I loved watching her play – the concentration she held between her brows, the smile that emerged at the end of a song. I remember her first solo performance; tears ran down my face and a great sense of pride and happiness filled me. This was it, I thought.  My girl has found her “thing”.  I gifted her viola necklaces, viola Christmas tree ornaments, a special viola bag for her stuff – all to remind her: She was a violist.

By the end of her third-grade year, my daughter was progressing steadily; she was taking on more challenging pieces and had attended a week-long camp. It wasn’t until we moved houses and changed school districts that things started to change. We found a top-notch instructor for private lessons and enrolled in our new district’s after-school orchestra. She became fickle about the viola. She came to dread going to practice and we left her new instructor’s house, more often than not, frustrated, mad at each other, and disappointed. She told me she wanted to give up the viola, she asked to stop playing. But I continued to push it, convincing her we just had to get used to the new way of things, that she loved the viola, remember?

And so we soldiered on for the next year – with me desperately hanging on and her obliging at the very minimum to stay involved. It was clear to me her heart wasn’t in it, but I couldn’t let it go.  She had worked all this time at it—for five years!—we had spent countless hours practicing, money for lessons, rentals, and camp and it was good for her academics and self-esteem (right?), never mind the potential scholarship opportunities, and, oh yeah, she was really good at it too!

I watched her at her final performance that school-year – gone was the concentration, determination, and joy I once saw. Instead, it was replaced with the resigned look one wears when doing a chore. I asked her what she thought of the performance; she shrugged and asked if we could go get fro-yo. It broke my heart.

That summer, we had a few lessons but I stopped pushing for her to practice. At end of our last lesson, I asked her, “Do you want to play the viola anymore?” Peering at her in the rear-view mirror, a look of worry swept over her face and she replied, “Well, I know you really want me to play…” I took a deep breath and asked, “Honey, does it make you happy to play?  Do you like it?”  She hesitated, looked down, and responded, “No, not anymore.” And that was it; I knew we had arrived at the end of our viola journey. We packed up the viola and returned it the next day. I cried. She was dry-eyed.

I asked her what she wanted to do as her extra-curricular activity now. She talked about how much she loved making videos on her tablet and thought it would be fun to take a class so she could learn more. I found a place that had just opened by our house, an academy that offered lessons on digital design. I enrolled her in the videography class. She was excited and nervous on her first day; we were both encouraged by the friendliness of her instructor as she introduced herself and showed us around the studio. I sat in the waiting room and half an hour later she returned to me, a bright smile on her face. We bid her instructor good-bye, and as soon as we go out the door my daughter responded with a squeal of delight and started a rambling monologue that only another 10-year old girl could keep up with. She was literally standing on the tips of her toes as she talked, excitement pouring out of her, her eyes shining bright. There it was – the passion, the joy, the happiness – that had been missing from her viola playing for the last year, longer if I was really being honest with myself. She was “sparking”.