A year and a half ago, I walked on stage in my worn out black heels and concert dress and stood taller when I saw my friends clapping in the front row. I gave them a gentle grin before I began to play my cello. My body relaxed against the hard chair when they cheered me on between pieces. The brisk fall air and my friends' proud smiles welcomed me outside of the Merrill Auditorium after my concert: “You were amazing.” Their reassurance was everything to me. The words my best friend whispered in my ear promised me that I had just had an amazing concert. My grandpa pulled me into a warm embrace and told me he enjoyed the Mahler symphony we had played. A feeling of accomplishment rushed through me, because my grandpa wouldn’t say that if it weren't true. My friends smiled and told me their favorite pieces from the program, and I felt proud. I expected this feeling to last forever.  

Nine months later, as I slowly made my way to my seat on stage, my eyes were stuck on the empty red velvet seats in the front row. While my seasonal orchestra concert usually fills me with eagerness, that day I didn’t want to go on stage. The audience was filled with people I didn’t know. I watched the friends, boyfriends, parents, and grandparents of my fellow orchestra members take up the seats, and I didn’t know for whom I was playing. My friends who were at my previous concert had grown out of my life, and I didn’t see the worth of creating beautiful music for strangers. The exciting dance we were playing, a mesmerizing rhythm that had the audience on the edge of their seats, with its constantly changing cadence and tone, failed to excite me. I just wanted someone to be there, to share the moment with me, to hear me, to see the work I had done. It wasn’t enough if I was the only one who knew.

A few months after this concert, I spent six weeks in Michigan at the Interlochen Center for the Arts, a music institute, and it felt like a different world compared to my life in Maine. I spent hours each day alone in poorly lit practice rooms. We had auditions every week and were constantly evaluated by our teachers and peers. Interlochen was the scariest and most intense place I have ever been, but it transformed me, and I would give anything to go back.

 Before I left for Michigan, my world was rearranged. My best friend moved, and I was unsure how I would get through high school without her. My grandpa had died a week before I left, and without him, life had no purpose. My neighborhood felt empty; each block had a memory of something that I could never relive. Although my family was there, I felt alone in my house without my grandfather's assured presence, which always filled our house with warmth and safety. Suddenly, unable to process all of the events, I was off to Michigan.

At my third concert at Interlochen, one of the pieces we played was The Planets, written by Gustav Holst. As we prepared for the concert, I felt an overwhelming emptiness; I walked the huge and unfamiliar campus alone, filled with a feeling of overlying discomfort. I wished for my grandpa to come back to hear my concert, his bright blue eyes and gentle smile awaiting me in the audience. I wished for a time machine to go back to when my friends provided safety and simplicity, and everything felt perfect. 

During the first movements of The Planets, the anticipation grew, but once we finally reached the movement Jupiter, it was like a giant release. We arrived at the moment when the entire string section – the violas, cellos, violins, and double bases – played in unison. Corson Auditorium was filled completely with warmth and magic as we all played the most beautiful melody I had ever heard. My stand partner and I couldn’t refrain from grinning through the three minute melody. The melody begins quietly, and its harmony suggests the beginning of a triumph. Then the volume grows, and a sense of hope and relief passes through each person playing in the orchestra. The orchestra plays carefully, not fully releasing its most beautiful sound but still allowing the breathtaking melody to make every person in the audience and orchestra feel something. Finally, it’s like an explosion once you reach the final phrase. When you think the deepness of the sound can’t grow anymore, it does. Every person plays with their most jubilant and undefeated sound, our bows moving gracefully at the same speed. For one ephemeral moment, as I pressed my bow deep into my strings and played with intense vibrato, everything was okay. The emptiness I felt because of my grandpa's absence was taken over by the emotion flowing through my body as I played this spectacular melody. I wasn’t filled with loneliness even though there was no one with whom I could share this moment. I was playing to honor my grandpa, because he had taught me how to appreciate music and life. I was playing because I had the opportunity, and I was able to experience the magic of music for myself. When the concert ended, a wave of euphoria hit me, and I couldn’t believe what I had just experienced. 

Five months after I had returned to Maine from Interlochen, I was back at Merrill Auditorium for the fall concert. A steadiness rushed through me as I strode on stage filled with a confident excitment. The red velvet seats, taken by people I didn’t know, welcomed me. My feet placed firmly on the stage grounded me. The array of notes played by the brass as they tuned calmed my nerves. I took a deep breath, and I prepared to play. 

The Shostakovich Symphony began with a mysterious and teasing movement followed by a chaotic second movement that required immense concentration. The passages that I meticulously practiced for hours flew by, and I felt a sense of control and relaxation as I played the piece that I knew so well. My body swayed back and forth as I focused on the music we were making. 

When it was time for my solo, the longest one in the symphony, my hands took over for my mind, and I became an important leader bringing my orchestra through a beautiful passage. I leaned into every note and then pulled back in the next phrase. I played the solo as if it were someone calling for help, increasing in desperation and intensity when there was no response. When there was no response to its cries reverberating from my strings and vibrato in my fingers, I retreated and played a quiet sustained note. A measure to accept that no one was coming; my sound was the only thing that filled the hall. The solo ended on a sudden, deafening note, resonating through the hall, but the piece continued. The brass and woodwinds rejoined and brought the orchestra back to life. Slowly, the piece picked back up, growing in volume and speed as sections joined in one by one. The symphony ended on a hopeful and deep note, a strong ending to a profound piece. Once the orchestra was done, the conductor gestured for me to bow by myself, and I stood up assuredly. The audience was blurry, and I was too excited to pay attention, but their figures clapping and cheering, although strangers, felt like a warm embrace. I thought: I did that. I worked for that. I am proud of myself.