I was only four when my mother decided I should learn to play the piano. At that age, I didn’t know much about the world — just the smell of fresh hay, the quiet hum of the prairie wind, and the creak of our old farmhouse floorboards. But I still remember the first time I sat at that upright piano, my feet not yet touching the pedals, and feeling something move inside me that I couldn’t name.
My teacher was a strict Hungarian woman who believed that music was something you earned — not something that was handed to you. She had the kind of discipline that came from another time, another world. If you practiced hard, she’d pour you a glass of milk and hand you a cookie with a proud smile. If you didn’t, she’d remind you of your duty with a quick tap across the knuckles from a thin switch. I didn’t know any better then, but I soon learned which side of that equation was the better one. Practice, it turned out, didn’t just make perfect — it made peace.
As the years passed, life moved me far from the farm. But that discipline she instilled never left me. The piano became more than an instrument — it became my sanctuary. When the days go wrong, when people disappoint, when life feels like it’s veering off the rails, I can always sit down at those keys and lose myself. Somehow, even in the mess of life, those black and white keys never lie. They demand honesty, and they give it back in sound.
Old country songs became my heartbeat. The kind that tell stories about work, heartbreak, and the kind of quiet hope you only find on the open road. I learned them by ear, note by note, until they felt like they’d always been mine. There’s a strange kind of comfort in music that was written by men and women who worked the land, lost their loves, and kept going anyway. That music reminds me who I am — and where I came from.
When I was young, we didn’t have much, but on Halloween I’d play piano in neighbors’ homes to earn a few extra treats. I’d sit down and play a tune — something lively, something real — and watch the smiles spread. For a kid from the farm, those nights felt like magic. Every house, every song, was a small victory — proof that music could open doors, soften hearts, and fill empty pockets with candy.
Now, all these years later, I still feel that same spark. Every time I sit at the piano, I’m back in that farmhouse, back in that little room with the Hungarian teacher who believed in hard practice, cookies, and truth. I miss that discipline more than I ever thought I would. It built something in me that time can’t erase.
Music has been my constant companion — my escape, my therapy, my teacher, and my friend. It doesn’t ask for anything except sincerity. And when I play, especially on long nights when sleep won’t come, I find something that feels like peace.
Maybe that’s what it means to be balanced — to take everything life gives you, the beauty and the pain, and turn it into a song.