Twelfth grade— In the middle of a dance studio at a local school, I stood clutching my phone, surrounded by my bandmates and supportive friends. I could feel the vibrations of the floor beneath my feet, the soft murmur of expectant children that sat in a circle around us. At that moment, it was as though a clock, which had been paused throughout my life, had suddenly begun to tick again, instilling in me a feeling that from that point onward, my life was destined for change.

Middle school— I was one of just three Chinese students in my entire grade, and I often found myself standing out, left behind, all while grappling with the reality of being financially disadvantaged in a rich school. The thoughts of not deserving my place, of not belonging, and of never succeeding used to plague me. As a result, I spent a lot of time on my own, drawing, singing, or reading books. 

As I listened to the beginning chords, an overwhelming sense of displacement washed over me. My former self, who had never imagined being on that stage, clashed with this newfound version of me that had emerged. I pushed past this feeling and decided to embrace happiness instead of shrinking away.

This was nothing like screaming in the shower. This was the first time I could hear myself like I was truly on stage. I glanced towards the guitarist. He gave a look of apprehension.

Then, he gave a small nod, and I took the deepest breath I could like my life depended on it.

My heart as a metronome, I threw my voice out on the beat like I was flinging myself off a cliff— and then, I was slowly getting used to the fall.  As I sang my heart out to an audience of little critics, I heard my voice being drowned out by the loud guitar. Yet, as the minutes passed, they began to sway and clap, smiling and cheering me on. It was as if their enthusiasm washed away my apprehensions, and I began to truly enjoy myself.

One week ago—my coworker asked if I wanted to do something special for the kids. We worked at an after-school program that tutors kids from kindergarten to fifth grade, helping them with homework and taking care of them until their parents picked them up. Sometimes, it meant hours of explaining simple problems until they understood. But sometimes, it meant playing dodgeball with them or laughing with them about what happened to them that day. Or it meant tag on the playground, except it’s ten kids against one teacher and screaming and chaos. 

Before I knew it, the three months I spent teaching those kids had fostered an unexpected and deep attachment. The impending date for college to begin loomed, making me realize that I might not come back. Despite the persistent negative thoughts that clouded my mind daily, I pushed them aside and decided to act on my feelings, thinking, “Why not leave them with something meaningful?”

However, I underestimated the amount of work it would take for someone to play a guitar and someone to sing at the same time. Turns out, although he made big talk about being able to play the guitar he could only do rock riffs and simple chords.

But it didn’t matter. We had a week. We had a show. We made ourselves a plan.

I found myself practicing, every day after work, for what was going to be one of the things I will remember for a long, long time. I had to rehearse tirelessly to ensure that my pitch was perfect, my lyrics were memorized, and make sure the guitarist knew what he was playing. I was giving music lectures and attempting to teach him how to sing as well, though we gave up on that. Hours of practice soon turned into days, and it became evident that this was no ordinary gig; it was a labor of love that demanded my utmost dedication. 

That might be a little bit dramatic. But I truly felt like I was tasting what a real singer might have chased— the exhilaration of preparation before a big show.

Although they were kindergarteners, and eventually some got a bit bored, many stayed and sat in front of us to listen to us sing and play music. My favorite kids continued to cheer me on, and my other coworkers shushed the kids to let them hear my voice. 

Finally, we played the last song, and I sang, smiling at the children and smiling at my bandmates. Even though there was no special stage, microphones, or stage background music, the guitar, our phones, and our voices were enough to capture our emotions. 

On a stage, you can’t see the audience. But I think I prefer the light that came through the windows that afternoon in the dance studio. The light that cast a glow on my bandmates, the kids, my friends, that allowed me to see their smiling expressions as the music played.

As the show came to a close, and the kids left with smiles that stretched from ear to ear, I felt a profound sense of accomplishment. It wasn’t a sudden click for me that washed away my self doubt. I still think that way sometimes, when things get hard. But when that happens, I often think back to this moment and tell myself, “I did that. I did that!” And no one can say it wasn’t a result of my hard work.

In the end, I realized that the lessons of hard work and dedication I had learned on that day were not limited to that one afternoon. They had become a part of me, a reminder that anything worth doing requires effort and passion. Singing for those children had not only entertained them but also transformed me, instilling in me a newfound appreciation for the magic that can happen when you work hard with love and enthusiasm.