My Story with Piano...

If you were told you had no talent or in some way that you weren’t good enough or whatever-enough to learn piano or sing… you're not alone. I was told that too—multiple times across both piano and voice. This was something told to me and eventually I began telling that to myself. Working my way out of this, to find the joy in music again, changed everything I knew about learning. But first, I had to get kicked out of piano class.

I was ousted from my first piano class because my teacher said I wasn’t musical enough. 

Then I picked it back up at thirteen.

My first keyboard was a hand-me-down from the 80s, given to me by my brother after he lost interest. As a misfit 13-year-old who had just moved from another country, I spent long hours on the couch playing random notes. When I joined choir, I began connecting what I learned there to the piano. Bit by bit, I wore out that little keyboard teaching myself simple melodies.

Piano became my refuge—a place to express feelings I didn’t yet have words for. It also became my teacher, showing me how music works and helping me see the sounds I was trying to sing. I had been the only kid in choir who couldn’t match pitch—but the piano changed that. Suddenly, my voice, an instrument I couldn’t see, had a visible map.

Soon I was playing chords, learning songs I loved, and hearing things I’d never noticed before. It was like life went from black-and-white to full color.I loved piano so much that when my parents offered me a car, I turned it down for a piano instead. Not because I wanted to be a concert pianist—but because piano gave me a deep sense of connection: to my feelings, to others, and to my authentic and creative self.

But that only lasted so long.

Because I was teaching myself, I got stuck and bored. At the time, I was too young to realize that I was making the process unenjoyable—and that I was ingraining tension habits that held me back. I couldn’t see how I was in my own way.Even though I later worked with three different teachers, none of them could hold both my desire to play difficult pieces and my desire to enjoy the process, and my desire to be creative.

All of that was fine, though, because my original goal in learning piano and voice was to compose music.

I didn’t think I was a good singer, but I wanted to study it in college so I could compose better for voices—so I could understand what truly brings out the best in them. I used to tell my parents, “I don’t care if I work at McDonald’s during the day, as long as I can go home and compose something amazing.”

Then I had an experience that changed the course of my life.As an awkward high schooler, I managed to get into a summer workshop meant for college students. There, I worked with a teacher from Juilliard—and the changes that happened in my voice felt almost spiritual. I felt like I was flying. I had never experienced such physical ease and freedom in expressing myself since I was a child. My voice sounded—and felt—completely different.

It was the best and worst thing that ever happened to me.The best, because I now knew there were much better ways to learn music—ways where you don’t feel outside the music looking in, but inside it. You feel one with it—your body, heart, and mind all aligned, immersed, and in flow.

The worst, because I was totally dependent on my teacher to find that feeling of ease and freedom again. It took me over ten years to learn how to generate that kind of progress within myself, independent of any teacher.

Through working with many teachers around the world and learning how learning is the most enjoyable thing ever, how schooling, pressure to achieve and compete got in the way of that, and what it looks like to access and nurture my innate ability to learn—the way a baby learns to walk: without judgment, without words, just through feeling, experimentation, enjoyment, and surprise at standing up and moving forward.

From then on, my teachers amplified my learning process. I worked with them not out of dependency, but because I loved the collaboration. I still work with teachers, as life is better together.

That’s the most powerful place to be—able to guide yourself through learning, yet open to being supported by a teacher. To hold your own part in the song... even as you listen to and collaborate with other parts in the song.

This independent and interdependent way of learning doesn’t have to take ten years to figure out. Had I known then what I know now—had I had consistent access to a teacher who encouraged me to find my own way while supporting new ways to think, feel, and move toward what I wanted—I would have progressed faster, enjoyed the process more deeply, and the progress I made in music would have touched every area of my life. Instead of just trying to get the right notes, I would have seen how the underlying habits of how I use my hands get in the way of finding the right notes… and the better functioning, connection, and understanding of my habits of use with my hands would carry over to how I type, write, so many other things in life that would improve.

And it has touched every area of my life.

What I learned through piano, and singing, music-learning undertakings that require (well, actually, you can get better without this, it’s just not nearly as efficient) aligning your heart, mind, and body, and the deeper study of movement, learning, and emotion got me through a decade of depression. It helped me find the courage to express myself even when it was scary, to break free from overwhelm, to care for others without burning out, to care for myself without losing connection, and to pursue goals sustainably.

Most importantly… It helped me be okay with being human. To sense the missed note, the missed connection and find my way back. Which, after all, is what we all have to do throughout life. Why not make some music of it?

What I love most about teaching music is seeing how students catch something—an idea, a feeling, a way of expressing—that opens my own eyes to new ways of learning. Even the smallest thing, like the way someone uses their hands to play a single note, can teach me something new.

Teaching Philosophy

After fifteen years of teaching singing and piano—and researching how the brain, the heart, and the body learn—I’ve noticed differences between singers and pianists, but also one universal truth:

We all want to feel more joy.

That deep inner choice to celebrate life regardless of what is happening around you, the songs that kept being sung even amidst the darkest moments of history…

and even the simple yet powerful recharge of creating music that turns around your stressful or mundane workday, from burned out or bored at your lunch break to recharged and inspired, tapping a secret rhythm under your desk from that 5-min practice session at the keys or notes sung in the car.

That might mean being fully present while playing with others (because you can’t stop for a mistake), or singing a note with your whole brave self, or losing yourself in sound—where every finger contributes to the orchestra of the piano and you hold nothing back.And we all want to feel more connected—to ourselves, to others, or both.Music offers a break from living “from the neck up.” It invites you to feel your breath turning into song, your movements turning into sound. It teaches you how to hold your own intentions while listening to others. In that wordless collaboration, you feel part of something larger than yourself.