Twelfth grade— I found myself standing in the middle of a dance room at a local school, nervously clutching my phone. I glanced at my bandmates—my slacker friend who turned out to be a guitarist, and a third grade teacher’s assistant who also loved singing. I saw my other friends, who had come to watch me. At that moment, I felt like a clock that was paused had suddenly started ticking, marking the beginning of my journey of self worth.

Middle school—I was the one of only three Chinese kids in my entire grade. Immediately I was always singled out, left behind, not to mention the fact that I was poor in a bougie school. I used to violently think I don’t deserve this, I don’t belong here, I won’t make it. Art, reading, and music, all solitary activities I could enjoy without needing another person, were my lifeline. I never knew I would be sharing all three with people who were truly interested.

As I listened to the beginning chords, I suddenly felt a strong feeling of displacement—my previous self who would never even be able to stand up here fighting this new person who had suddenly showed up. 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 nodded towards my friend, who held his guitar. 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 grow small with the lack of a microphone. 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— a coworker had mentioned wanting to do something special for the last day of work. 

We worked at a school program that tutors kids from kindergarten to fifth grade — well, in all honesty and I think many would agree — it was basically paid daycare. When you’re working with 10 year olds, making them do their homework is near impossible; I can count the numerous times I had to stay after lunch for two hours helping this one kid complete ten questions on multiplication. Although he forgot what the question was every two minutes, each question he figured out on his own made every day I worked more rewarding. 

Before I knew it, the three months I spent teaching my kids had made me grow attached to them without thinking. That’s why I said yes to my friend’s crazy request, while my mind told me I’ll fail, it will never happen, I’m not that good.

But 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 band mates. 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. Singing for children had taught me that hard work was not just about sweating over a task but pouring your heart into it, overcoming self-doubt, and embracing the joy that comes from giving your all.

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 had also transformed me, instilling in me a newfound appreciation for the magic that can happen when you work hard with love and enthusiasm.