Fear, Embarrassment, and Learning a New Instrument
This is a story about the piano, the strength of childhood emotion, and the power of the human brain. It is also a strong encouragement to learn an instrument.

The upright bass is a monster of an instrument, I think as I embrace its hollow, resonant body against my own for the first time. The neck towers above my head, the width of its body is twice that of mine and my small hands can barely stretch across the strings. My classmate smiles kindly as I fumble my way through a scale, and I wonder if he notices the sweat building on my lip.
Two days later, I’m sitting in front of a drum kit. I had never so much as picked up a pair of sticks before. In front of instruments, I am usually shy, quiet, and surrendering. But in front of the drums, my friend says, “Don’t be afraid to be loud. It’s hard to break the drums. Don’t be timid. Go for it.”
Two more days pass. “Your hands are too small for the cello”, my teacher tells me. I would have to use a 3/4-sized version. My bow hand is contorted and cramping, my fingers are hyper-extending and my left hand is in constant tension.
I have been playing the piano since I was 7 years old. In high school, I was fortunate enough to take lessons at the New England Conservatory, under the tutelage of a gentle and nurturing teacher. For six years before that I studied piano under a merciless and traumatizing woman.
One hour every week, for six years, I had my regular appointment with terror and shame.
Every mistake I made ushered a flood of curses from her lips. Every bit of music theory I forgot elicited a shout of rage. Every un-memorized measure meant a minute of listening to her muttering about my incompetence as my hands trembled above tormented keys. I can still remember how her breath smelled, and how the beads on her necklace clinked together as she tossed her torso to and fro in frustration.
It was in that musty, carpeted basement room with that piano teacher where I learned panicked fear and paralyzing perfectionism. One hour every week, for six years, I had a regular appointment with terror and shame.
It’s difficult to think of many other experiences that had such a great impact on me as did those piano lessons. I beat myself into a rigid mold. I stopped seeking out competition of any kind for fear of failure. I internalized shame and embarrassment, and developed a debilitating fear of public embarrassment: of being seen as clumsy, stupid or incompetent.
At many times during those years, I stopped practicing the piano altogether because, in my mind, it was better to be the girl who was imperfect because she didn’t try rather than be the girl who practiced for hours, only to be told she was not good enough.
And yet, I kept pushing on. I kept pursuing and playing the piano because my love for music and the emotions it allowed me to feel were too important, too powerful, for me to abandon.
It was better to be the girl who was imperfect because she didn’t try rather than the girl who practiced for hours, only to be told she was not good enough.
T o this day, I don’t play piano in front of friends because I am still afraid of faltering, of seeming tense. I’m afraid, above all, of their judgement. It hurts. It hurts, because I love music and because just listening to it isn’t enough for me. I want to be able to communicate through an instrument.
I felt stuck in a rut — until just a few months ago, when I came to an admittedly obvious but nonetheless euphoric realization: the piano is not the only instrument. The piano is not the only instrument.
What was stopping me from picking up a new instrument, and starting over again?
Learning an instrument activates a part of your brain that you use every day, but that you first most intensely recruited way, way back when you just started learning how to walk: the motor cortex. Learning an entirely new set of complex motor skills is not something adults often encounter. We have enough experience to be able to add most new day-to-day skills we encounter to our repertoire without making fools of ourselves. But, when you sit down in front of a new instrument, you are suddenly a child again. You are clumsy, you mess up, your fingers slip, your arms hurt, you feel stupid and slow… except, in this scenario, it’s ok to feel that way because it’s what everyone experiences and what everyone else expects when learning a new instrument.
And when I messed up, I laughed, and asked my friends for help.
When I sat in front of the drums, when I held the cello and upright bass, I felt that fear, that weight. But, within minutes of starting each of my first lessons, I was filled with joy and excitement, picking up beats and melodies faster than I thought I could. And when I messed up, I laughed, and asked my friends for help.
I took to learning the drums. The beats pull me into flow and the motions are cathartic. I am still slow, I still have a very long way to go. But now, finally, I can play an instrument and become a source of music without the fear, without the shame, without the embarrassment and baggage.
When you sit in front of a new instrument, no matter how old you are, in that moment you are always a child. And when, like me, being a child in front of an instrument was a traumatizing thing, that moment gives you an opportunity to replace that trauma with something good.
I was the child who was terrified of messing up while playing Chopin.
I am the child who is still a little afraid, but now also excited and joyful in the face of a new and difficult beat.
O ne day, I will sit confidently in front of the piano again and begin to rewrite my fears on the bench.
One day, I will perform something on the piano for all my friends.
But until those days come, you can find me in the practice room at my university that houses the drum kit, messing up, practicing the same beat over and over again, slowly drumming my way through shame and fear with rhythm and flair.
Thanks for reading :) Learn more about me at https://www.marielrosic.com/ , and drop me a note at mariel.rosic@gmail.com
