The Art of Self-Discovery

You never forget the big firsts. 

You cherish every milestone your baby makes. Their first step, their first word, the first time they lock eyes with you and crack that gummy, life-changing smile. 

As they grow, the milestones keep coming, but they start to look a little different. They become less about first steps and more about first sparks.

That first painting taped to the fridge. That first time playing a recorder or figuring out a dance move and showing it off in the living room. The first time they walk through the front door carrying something they made with their own two hands.

Growing up, I wasn’t into sports. The most physical activity I got was during gym class, but even then, that mostly meant trying to avoid getting hit in the face with a ball or getting kicked in the shin. My sports legacy led to more accidental bruises than trophies. Athletics just weren’t my thing. 

Instead, I was more in tune with music. Well, at least sort of.

My parents enrolled me in private violin lessons. I quit. Then I rejoined. Then I quit again, at least three times. I partly quit because of the shrieking sounds I somehow created, but rejoined because of pure sibling rivalry. I just wanted to be better than my older brother at something. In the end, the violin and I agreed to part ways. And that was okay.

Luckily, I also had piano lessons. My brother was forced into taking it too, but I turned out to be better at it, which meant I finally had something I could beat him at. And that made it a lot more fun. I stuck with that for about eight years. Some days I loved it. Other days it felt like a chore. But I’ll never forget the thrill of playing two full songs from memory, no sheet music, just my dancing fingers. When it clicked, it was electric. 

When I wasn’t at the piano, I was doodling on my homework sheets or painting something wildly ambitious at home even when I knew it wouldn’t turn out to be a masterpiece. I had space to explore, to try new things and to figure out what sparked joy and what didn’t. 

I was lucky. I had chances to mess up and try again.

Because growing up is never one-size-fits-all. Not every child thrives in sports. Not every child becomes a prodigy in the arts. But every child deserves the chance to be seen, to be heard and to find what lights them up, even if that thing keeps changing. 

I know what it gave me, but I also know not everyone gets that same chance.

Some kids never get to explore beyond a classroom. Some don’t get the instruments, or the paints, or the practices. Not because they aren’t curious. Not because they aren’t capable. But because the door just isn’t open. 

Not every child has access, and those moments, those sparks, can change lives. 

Because we’re not just talking about programs or hobbies. We’re talking about moments. First tries. Do-overs. Little wins that build big confidence. 

Today, I play the piano again after not playing for roughly four years. I don’t play to impress anyone or to become the next Mozart; I play for me. Just because it makes me happy.

Just like you cheered for your baby’s first steps, you should be there to celebrate their first passions too no matter what form they take. 

Life is for trying, failing, picking yourself up and trying again. And that’s always worth celebrating.