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When I was a kid, I used to have annual piano recitals. I absolutely hated them, and each year, I would do anything to avoid them. I’d pray for the flu or a head cold to overtake me, for a small injury to the hand, or for a more important event to get scheduled on the same day as the recital. 

I had zero tolerance for dresses and attention on my performance. And while I was the most nervous performer there, I was a good pianist. I knew I was good––the best some years, actually––because the teachers would line up the least experienced to the most experienced. And I was always last.

So it wasn’t an issue with my playing but an issue with the attention—the eyes on me, the way I had to showcase my talent. Ugh. My fingers used to shake over the keys. Eyes wide. Hands sweaty. I’d always sit there before I played my first piece, crack my knuckles, take a deep breath, and maybe even close my eyes. Then I’d play. Once, I played the first movement of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata so beautifully that it even made a woman cry. 

I don’t often reflect on my piano recitals, but hearing Moonlight Sonata last night got me thinking. 

For four weeks now, I’ve been knee-deep in wedding planning and up to my ears in excitement (with splashes of nervousness). They tell me this part of my life will fly by and that I must savor every moment. So, I’m not trying to imagine the moment the doors swing open, and I’m at the end of the aisle. All eyes on me. White dress. Some crying because of the beauty of it all. 

I’m trying to take it one day at a time, slowly, sweetly taking in these precious, present moments. 

Things change. 

These are growing pains, but pain doesn’t always hurt. Sometimes, it’s a relief to shed old skin and stretch into new one. 

Listening to Moonlight Sonata, I remembered the annual fit-pitching I’d given my mom about making me attend my recitals (in a stupid dress, nonetheless). And each year, she’d say, “You don’t understand right now, and I don’t expect you to, but this is important. You’ll see one day.” And I swore right then that if my future kid ever played an instrument, I’d never make them go to their recitals. 

But as the classic Beethoven piece continued to play, I pictured the moment my future child would beg me for something they didn’t understand. And I’d tell them that they should do the thing they don’t want to for the sake of growth. Not that they have to, but that they should.

For the sake of growth––for the sake of being faced with this thing again one day––do it and see that it will be okay. 

I like dresses now, but I’m definitely still not a fan of attention. Growing up is hard, but the best part about it is that now, I’ve got someone to share that with. 

And it’s a lot less scary.