A reflection on creativity lost too soon—and how it still lives in us, waiting. — A reflection on music, memory, and reclaiming softness
I was talking to my cousin the other day.
We do this sometimes—disappear into our own worlds for months, then suddenly reappear in each other’s lives like we never left. Our conversations are effortless. Sprawling. Emotional. We cover everything: family history, our parents, our siblings, love lives, work, the things we still dream of doing... and the things we never got to do.
We’re both February babies—air signs. Thinkers. Talkers. Dreamers.
There’s always something swirling in the atmosphere between us. Something deep. Reflective. Free-flowing.
Music: Our Constant Denominator
Every time we reconnect, one thing always shows up: music.
She told me about the Casio keyboard she got as a child, along with a beginner piano book. She was excited. Curious. But the interest—though real—never got to grow. Life stepped in. Structure stepped in. And most of all, priorities that weren’t hers stepped in.
And that’s when I remembered something I hadn’t said out loud in years.
A Piano by the Door
When I was somewhere between fifth and seventh grade, I asked my grandmother for piano lessons.
And for a short while—I actually got them.
There was a woman who taught out of her home. I still remember the feeling of walking in: quiet, sacred, still. The piano sat right at the entrance. Not tucked away. Not hidden in a corner. It lived in the center of the home—loud, proud, waiting to be played.
I was quiet, but eager.
Ready to learn. Ready to make sound.
Ready to press a key and feel something rise.
But the lessons didn’t last.
Maybe it was money. Maybe it was logistics. Maybe it was that silent, generational belief that art was a hobby for “other people.” That real life required practicality, not piano keys.
And so the lessons stopped.
And the little girl who wanted to play... didn’t.
The Notes We Still Carry
My cousin and I sat with this.
Two girls who had a spark.
Two women who, even now, feel the ache for the things we were almost allowed to love.
I think that’s why I’ve grown to love the pan yard.
It’s not a piano—but it has rhythm. Keys. A voice. A heartbeat.
It lets me express what I didn’t get to nurture as a child.
I get to play. I get to feel. I get to release.
And maybe that’s what this was all along—a quiet, lifelong craving for emotional freedom. For softness. For spaces that let us be whole.
Soft Life, Hard Lessons
My cousin and I are both in a season of craving softness.
Not laziness. Not lack of ambition.
But ease.
Feminine energy.
Joy that doesn’t have to be earned through exhaustion.
We’ve carried so much—being the strong ones, the dependable ones, the “fixers.”
We became the over-functioning daughters, sisters, and partners.
And it’s heavy.
It wears you down.
Now, we’re learning to peel back the layers.
To give ourselves permission to want what we were once told wasn’t practical, or possible.
When Dreams Are Treated Like Extras
It’s strange how long we carry the grief of dreams we weren’t allowed to nurture.
We were just kids, reaching for something that moved us.
And the people raising us—often with good intentions—taught us that our gifts weren’t necessary. That creativity wasn’t “real.” That art was something extra. Something you grow out of, not into.
But creativity isn’t extra.
It’s essential.
It’s how we connect.
It’s how children make sense of themselves, and the world around them.
And when adults dismiss it—when they say, “That’s not important”—they don’t just say no to a hobby.
They teach a child to silence themselves.
To second-guess their instincts.
To believe their voice isn’t worth hearing.
That kind of disconnection doesn’t disappear. It lingers.
We Grow Up… But Something Still Feels Missing
Here we are now—two grown women who once wanted to play the piano.
We still light up when we talk about music.
We still wonder who we might have been if someone had simply said yes.
I think that’s why I feel so at home in the pan yard.
It may not be a grand piano, but it has everything I need.
Sound. Energy. Freedom.
A space to let my spirit stretch and sing.
I may not have been raised to believe music was a path—but I’m finding my way back to it. On my terms. In my rhythm. With my own two hands.
A Note to Parents (Past, Present, and Future)
Please—don’t dismiss what your child naturally loves.
You may not understand it. You may not see how it fits into your plans.
But that spark they carry?
That could be their gift.
Their compass. Their therapy.
The very thing that helps them feel alive when everything else feels heavy.
Don’t teach them to live half-alive.
Let them draw. Let them dance. Let them sing.
Let them build or tinker or make magic out of words.
Because creativity isn’t just cute—it’s identity.
It’s how a child learns who they are.
Image created with OpenAI's Sora
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