The Piano Bench: An Altar of Fear

When I was about six or seven years old, my parents enrolled me in piano lessons. I don't remember asking for them—I was just placed in them. My mom used to play the piano. She had learned as a girl in Cuba while living with her grandmother.

We had a grand piano in our living room, a beautiful and commanding presence. But I don’t remember her playing it much.

My weekly lessons were held at the piano teacher’s home, just a mile from ours. I have vague memories of being dropped off, books in hand. I can still picture the books—one for theory, one for practice, and one for performance. I remember the weight of them, how the pages would fall open to the lesson I needed to work on.

Practicing at home felt like a ritual. I would sit on the hard bench, open to the day’s assignment, and try to play. I don’t recall exactly when it started, but at some point, I began to fear piano practice. The sound of a wrong note would set something off—not in me, but in my mother.

If I made a mistake, she would start yelling. Screaming. The pressure to get every note right crushed me. I would cower, tears welling up, trying not to cry because she would say I was being dramatic. But the tears came anyway, and with them, blurred vision and slippery keys. I couldn't see the music. I couldn’t think straight. I tried to keep playing, but I was stuck in what I now recognize as a fear response—fight, flight, freeze. I froze. And I messed up again. And again.

The cycle would repeat. Her yelling, my crying, the mistakes, more yelling. What was supposed to be music became a source of dread.

(This is Part 1 of 3. Click here to read Part 2.)

I would love to hear your story. Email me. I read every email.