In each note in a measure,  
each phrasing, 
each cadence, 
each accent and each dynamic, 
music tells a story like reading a book. 
With each stroke of bow or tap of key or strike on drum, 
music is the language that sets me free. 
It’s the feeling of sleeping after the alarm has awakened me, 
the feeling of having fun with friends during first grade recesses, 
the feeling of after a tough day, finally a sip of boba tea. 
 
In the staccatos and arcos of the viola's bow,  
I feel my motions, clear and tangible. 
Take a deep breath, 
Lift the viola up, 
my chin on the chin rest, 
my shoulder in touch with the shoulder rest. 
Leaning on my right foot, 
and one last deep breath, 
this is how I start practicing, 
how I prepare, 
And how I perform. 
It’s more than just 3 seconds, 
or 5, 
or 10.  
Or the tuning in the beginning, 
or the down bow at the end. 
It’s more than that. 
Notes dance like fireflies in the night,  
guiding me through darkness with their light. 
In the darkest times of my life, 
music, 
was the one who didn’t betray me. 
 
Piano keys beneath my fingers glide, 
a symphony of emotions, deep and wide.  
Each chord a story,  
each melody a tale. 
Some are main melody, 
some are sub, 
but I love them all. 
I rely on them, 
I practice them, 
I listen to them, 
because together, they form the piece, 
without the any of them, 
the piece, 
is incomplete. 
Wrong notes do appear, 
but this time, 
it's okay. 
 
But it's the drums that stir my very core,  
their beats like thunder, a wild uproar.  
Each strike reminding me that,  
I’m alive! 
 
It’s more than just notes on a page,  
It's more than just reading and playing, 
It's the language of passion, of love, of rage.  
It’s not for wealth, 
It's not for fame, 
It's for my own interests and passion. 
Let it sing, 
Let it free, 
Let them be who they are. 
I’m not her anymore, 
I’m the pianist, 
violinist, 
violist, 
drummer, 
composer, 
and a fourteen-year-old girl.