When I was three, I watched a video of my uncle performing violin in Taiwan. I decided then and there that, someday, I would play on that stage too.
It’s one thing to make a wish; it’s another to make it happen. From my first violin lesson in fifth grade, I devoted all the time I could to practicing my instrument. I worked tirelessly for my very first audition for the Greater Twin Cities Youth Symphonies, and when I was accepted into its beginner orchestra, I was suddenly responsible for a lot more. My parents drove me to all of my rehearsals and lessons, and I woke up early every morning before school to practice. With every new effort that I put into my instrument, I found myself sitting closer and closer to the front rows of the orchestras I was in.
Middle school was full of ups and downs, but the violin gave me something that no amount of friendship conflicts and preteen insecurities could take away. As a 12–year–old kid, I wasn’t anyone important. But when I played the violin, I meant something to the people listening to me. When I worked towards my goals and crossed them off one by one, I meant something to myself.
Towards the end of eighth grade, my childhood dream of going into music turned into something more meaningful. It occurred to me one May afternoon that I could truly see myself continuing down this path for a very long time. At that moment, music was no longer a pastime but something for which I would be willing to give up a lot more.
I hit the ground running freshman year. I got a new teacher and jumped into more advanced repertoire. I woke up even earlier in the morning to practice and signed up for more performance opportunities. In January 2020, I registered for my very first competition and practiced upwards of four hours a day, hoping to win.
Instead, I got carpal tunnel in both wrists.
I was told to stop playing for a few weeks, which slowly turned into the entirety of quarantine as hospitals went into lockdown and I couldn’t get physical therapy for several months. During this time, I was still learning new pieces, but my capacity for playing was extremely limited, and one overzealous move could set my recovery back by weeks.
I felt as if I was losing the thing that made me, well, me. I began to wonder: What was my worth if I wasn’t continuously striving to improve at violin? What was my life supposed to be if not one completely dedicated to music?
Thankfully, I didn’t have to ponder those questions for very long. I got physical therapy and recovered, and by junior year, I was auditioning, performing, and competing again. The year that COVID–19 restrictions lifted was a whirlwind. I woke up every morning at 4 a.m. to practice and spent hours driving to and from GTCYS rehearsals, violin lessons, rehearsals with my accompanist, concerts I was playing in, concerts I wasn’t playing in, quartet rehearsals, quartet recitals, my own recitals, live competitions, recording sessions for online competitions … you get the idea. On top of everything, I was studying to be a conductor, preparing for college auditions, and working to organize a music tutoring program at school so I could keep teaching violin.
As much as I was enjoying myself, I started to wonder whether this was really the life I wanted. But, I thought, who was I if not a violinist? It was too scary of a question to consider, so I didn’t.
The summer before my senior year, I toured southern Italy with GTCYS (I was now serving as principal in the top orchestra), visited several music schools with my dad, attended All-State Orchestra camp, and participated in a chamber music festival with my string quartet.
I should have been enjoying myself that summer, but instead, I was unbelievably stressed and started making excuses to avoid my instrument any chance I could. It occurred to me that maybe I didn’t want to go into music professionally. But by this point, I had completely lost track of where I ended and where my art began, and the prospect of disentangling the two was so daunting that I refused to entertain it. After all, who was I, if not a violinist?
Then, one August afternoon during a particularly arduous rehearsal at the chamber music festival, something inside of me snapped.
“I’m quitting violin,” I told my co–violinist flatly. Then, I packed up my stuff and left the room.
I felt like I had just thrown away the last seven years of my life with that statement. But I also felt a bit better.
Technically, I didn’t quit. Senior year, I still led my school orchestra and played in my quartets. I successfully launched my music tutoring program and continued to perform frequently. I played my senior solo and graduated with enough musical accolades for all my years of hard work. My friends told me that I looked happier. I felt happier. But I also felt lost, and I worried that I had just made the single biggest mistake of my entire life. Was I still a violinist, or was I just somebody who played the violin? My question remained unanswered: Who was I, if not a violinist?
Now, I study computer science, and I spend more time in front of a laptop screen than a music stand. I don’t listen to as much classical music as I used to, and I certainly don’t practice two or three hours a day anymore. Still, even with every step I take towards a future that looks vastly different from the one I initially dreamed for myself, music has never once left my side.
I hear it in the silences of lecture halls, in the symphony of car horns blaring on Walnut Street. I see it reflected in the faces of my new quartet members and violin teacher. I listen to my friends from home perform on the radio and watch their concert livestreams from my dorm room, feeling as if I am right there with them. And every morning at 7 a.m., when I drag myself to the Lauder practice rooms for no other reason than to continue doing what I enjoy the most, I fall even more in love with music.
I am not the art that I create, but I also wouldn’t be who I am if it weren’t for my art. My artistic identity is not solely tied to my artistic skill, nor is it tied to other people’s perception of that skill. It is something that can never be taken away from me even if I choose to shift my focus towards other pursuits. The quality and quantity of my artistic output do not define my worth as a person, nor do they define my worth as an artist. I am still the same violinist I have always been, just with different dreams now. I have had the fortune to live a musical career filled with fantastic experiences and wonderful people, all of which will accompany me to the next chapter of my life.
So, who am I, if not a violinist? The question is trivial—I will never not be a violinist. But more importantly, I will always be myself no matter what, and that’s enough of an answer for me.
