​Read this on the web​

Hey there,

When I was in grade school I played the violin. It started in Grade Four with a number of kids convincing their parents to let them do it as a way to skip out on a portion of regular class so that we could squawk away in the classroom farthest from any life. Of course, my best friends were enrolled. It was an exclusive club. It felt special.

The group had dwindled significantly by Grade Five. There were maybe a handful of us pint-sized performers whose parents hadn’t wanted to stop their ears bleeding from the required at home practice. The novelty wore off for many kids too. My friends had bailed.

Carrying the violin case on the bus to school once a week became less a badge of honour and more of a neon sign announcing who the nerds were. My sign had a particularly bright glow on account of the fact I was pretty good at the violin. “A natural talent,” my teacher would say. “Pet”, my classmates would say, as I was chosen to perform Good King Wenceslas solo for the school’s Christmas concert—in the big high school auditorium. It was the only violin appearance.

As I neared the end of that school year, my excitement grew for my upcoming June “graduation” and September entrance into Middle School. There was no violin program at this new school, where the big kids were so cool. Violin was decidedly not. It was starting to cramp my style.

My teacher had a possible solution so that I could continue lessons and was even willing to make an exception to teach one lone student at my school if I couldn’t attend classes elsewhere. He had already encouraged me (and my parents helped) to join the city-wide youth orchestra as an additional learning opportunity. We met on Saturday mornings when other kids were watching cartoons and playing in their PJs. A mix of ages and instruments, the band was a chance to level up my skills and to grow up around other musical kids. But it was hard for me to make friends when I was playing shy and simultaneously labelling everyone there as uncool.

Somewhere along the way, I had moved from wanting to shine and stand out to wanting to hide. If shining meant being too different, then it wasn’t worth the risk of mocking or the social hit. I decided that I wanted out. Grade Five would be the final year of violin for me.

My parents were upset and tried to convince me to keep going, to see where it might lead. At 10, I was more interested in getting the right wave in my stick straight hair by sleeping with the optimal number of braids in it. After my continuous pleading my parents relented, but with one condition. If I wanted to quit, then I had to tell my teacher. If I was old enough to make the decision, then I was mature enough to communicate my reasons. Gulp.

Needless to say, this was torture for me. My teacher, like my parents, tried to change my mind. I was devastated by the thought of disappointing anyone, especially someone who heaped praise my way, who had invested time in me. And I didn’t really have a strong case for stopping other than the short-sightedness of youth and fear of missing out on other social activities before FOMO was even a thing. I was missing a “why” and that’s something I’ve struggled with in decisions to this day.

Where I regret the uninformed decisions of my youth, it’s led me to often stick around in bad situations far longer than I should. Partly to avoid those uncomfortable conversations and what I perceive as letting others down, and partly because I spend an extraordinary amount of time second-guessing my “why” and demanding an irrational amount of proof that walking away is the right choice. Which is why I was drawn to this idea:

Does that strike a chord with you too? While it may not have applied to my violin choice back in the day, I think it offers some great guiding questions to ask when facing a fork in the road. Many of us get fooled into thinking that the investment we’ve already put in will somehow yield big bank even though it’s been nothing but a drain to date.

It’s hard to cut your losses and move on, but that’s just it—lost. Time, money, whatever you’ve already given is in the past and gone. So I have to ask myself, if this is feeling bad now and has been for some time, why on earth would I keep at it in the same way? Something has to give. That was the impetus for me going zero proof and that’s one decision that I have zero regrets about. It’s not always easy, but it’s more Ode to Joy than sad violin playing.

Lisa
xo

Did someone forward you this newsletter? Get your own copy next time. Sign up here. ⬅️

​

​