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I had just turned 17 years old when I experienced my first heartbreak. And included in the horrible timing of the whole thing, I had a piano recital coming up about two weeks later. 

Music played a large role in my life then (and still does. I’m in Nashville!). My six-month-long relationship was with a boy who played piano, like I did, so the break-up pushed me away from my instrument. I didn’t touch a piano for over a week, not because I was dying from a broken heart. It was the nature of the whole thing, how an instrument could demand emotion from me while all I could do was look at the ivory with grief and tears.  

But I’ll be honest: I hated piano recitals. I hated the attention, the part where I had to put on a dress, the part where I might mess up in front of a large crowd…we’ve been over this before. So, the timing? While it looked bad, it was fitting for my mood. Perhaps I wouldn’t have to attend after all. 

However, I did end up attending that year, and I played Beethoven’s First Movement of Moonlight Sonata. In fact, I tracked down a group picture of that recital on Facebook the other day because my niece (six years old, precious, just lost her first two teeth, I could go on) has taken up––quite passionately, I might add––piano lessons with the same teacher I had as a teenager. 

For all the time I sat on my piano teacher’s bench, I never imagined my sister’s daughter would sit there a mere decade later, driven up the same steep road by my mother, who’s found herself right back in the same routine she had with me for so many years. I could go into a neat parallel about how history repeats itself or how one door closes and another one opens, but I won’t. 

I’ll go back to the summer I turned 17. 

Mid-heartbreak, I had my mom inform my piano teacher that I couldn’t attend my recital, that I was just too disheartened. How could I ask my mom to properly describe the aversion I briefly encountered toward the piano? 

I remember very distinctly the day that my mind changed about the recital. It was hot outside, and I saw an unfamiliar number pop up on my phone. Then, I remembered that my mom had said my teacher was going to give me a call. I went to my bathroom, closed the door, and let the call go to voicemail. How could I properly describe to my piano instructor my aversion to our instrument?

When the voicemail delivered, I climbed onto the countertop and clicked “play.”

“Hi, Macy, it’s your piano teacher. Your mom said something about your boyfriend breaking up, and I just want to say I’m so sorry. I hope you can still play in the final. I’ve got your name on the program, and it would…actually, it would be a disappointment to me if you didn’t play. I just hope you don’t let him define who you are, which is a beautiful young lady and a beautiful pianist. So I just hope you can practice a little bit. It wouldn’t take much practice to come and play in the final, but if you’d like to talk, I’d love to talk with you tonight.”

She concluded by telling me that she’d been through a similar situation in the past, leaving me with this: “I’ll be glad to talk with you about the pain. I understand, and you’ll get through this. You’re strong, and you will get through this.” 

She was right; I got through my tiny blip in teenagehood. But I never stopped appreciating that voicemail. 

To my piano teacher: 

My mom said you still read my column every other week. You should know I still listen to that voicemail once a year or so, just to make sure it’s still there. 

With love,

Your piano student.