Notes to the Future

Lasting lessons in persistence and possibility

This afternoon, like many others, my kids were hunched at the piano, matching slumped shoulders with exaggerated sighs. Grace declared her fingers “too wobbly for G major.” Reece tried to bargain: hands together but no repeats. The metronome ticked on, indifferent to complaints. I counted silent beats and reminded myself that this scene felt familiar for a reason.

Most days, my kids don’t enjoy practice. I didn’t either. I can still remember the hard wooden bench beneath me while I pecked through “Für Elise,” wishing I were anywhere else. The hallway of notes on the page looked endless, and the minutes ahead felt heavier than the keys under my fingers. Back then I couldn’t imagine the future me who would sit and play piano and sing to my husband during our wedding. The payoff was invisible because the future version of myself was still a stranger.

Our brains respond to future-self images almost the same way they respond to pictures of complete strangers. When a child (or an adult) can’t feel connected to tomorrow’s version of themselves, it’s no surprise that today’s discomfort looms larger than tomorrow’s reward.

I see the same gap in Grace and Reece. To them, daily practice is an exercise in immediate frustration: repetitive motion, dissonant notes, friends outside enjoying the sunshine. Future Grace, confidently playing Christmas carols while her children sing along, is invisible to my daughter. Future Reece, discovering songwriting as a pressure valve during college stress, doesn’t register as a possibility. The bridge between now and later feels flimsy if it exists at all.

So why insist on showing up at the bench even when it’s painful for all of us? Partly because music has become our family’s portable language of belonging. From Napa to Germany, the familiar black-and-white keys have anchored us when nothing else felt settled. But mostly, piano is a low-stakes rehearsal for much larger lessons: perseverance, grit, and caring for the person we’re becoming.

Each practice session is a tiny vote for a future self who can do something that feels impossible today. It’s the compounding interest of habits. Small, consistent choices add up in ways dramatic gestures never could. Eventually, ten minutes become mastery measured in muscle memory

Of course, none of this philosophy helps a seven-year-old staring down Hanon exercises. I try to name the challenge instead of muscling (or yelling) through it: “Practice can be boring, and you’d rather be outside. I get it. I used to feel that way, too.” Empathy keeps the piano bench from turning into a battlefield. Then I try to flash a quick postcard from tomorrow: What song would you love to play at Grandma’s house this Christmas? How will it feel when your fingers know where to go without thinking? I give tiny reminders that we are practicing for someone we have not met yet.

Sometimes (most times) they still fight it, but almost every week a breakthrough happens. A clean scale. A new piece that suddenly sounds like music. A proud FaceTime performance for grandparents. When things click, the friction feels worth it.

Tomorrow the metronome will click again. Predictably, my kids will probably mutter under their breath (or protest at the top of their lungs). I will count 1-2-3-4, all the while trusting that a reluctant scale today might become future harmony.

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