It's Okay to be Just Okay

I started taking piano lessons when I was in elementary school, inspired by my older cousin, who played Yiruma classics like River Flows in You and Kiss the Rain.

The classes weren’t exactly designed for budding prodigies, but for little old me, they were enough. Five keyboards and three guitars were crammed into a stuffy room that, at any given time, could be filled with toddlers or grandpas in their seventies. The poor instructor was always on her feet, dashing between students, trying her best to offer everyone a bit of guidance.

I was overwhelmed by the chaos and preferred working through the lesson book quietly and diligently on my own. Eventually, I switched to a local music academy for one-on-one instruction, but I still look back fondly on those first lessons. I was so excited just to learn. That excitement—the kind that makes your heart race when your fingers hit the right notes—was the beginning of something special. The piano became my first love.

I remember sitting at my keyboard for hours after school, completely absorbed. I couldn’t wait to learn my first Mozart piece, or try to capture the dreamy atmosphere of Debussy's Clair de Lune. I’d play the same passage over and over, muscle memory taking over as soon as I touched the black and white keys.

But somewhere in middle school, my love for piano began to fade. Learning new songs took longer than I wanted because my sight-reading was (and still is) excruciatingly slow. Practice became a chore, especially knowing I had music theory homework waiting for me. And boy, did I hate music theory.

When I joined my school’s jazz band as one of three pianists, I stopped taking piano seriously altogether. The other two pianists were actual prodigies. Everything seemed to come effortlessly to them. Watching their fingers glide across the keys while I struggled just to keep up made the differences between us painfully obvious. Around the same time, I had two piano recitals that I completely bombed. It was humiliating.

I remember feeling crushed—like all the hours I’d poured into learning this instrument had been for nothing. I felt incompetent, like I was chasing something I wasn’t meant to catch. Comparing myself to others drained the joy out of playing.

Looking back now, I realize how much that all-or-nothing mentality held me back. If I couldn’t be great, why bother at all?

But I don’t want to think that way anymore.

Over the past few years, I’ve focused more on singing, but I’ve felt the pull back toward piano. I want to return to it—not with pressure, not to be impressive, but just to enjoy it. Whether it’s learning simple chords to accompany my singing or practicing piano versions of soundtracks I love (I’m learning Dawn from Pride and Prejudice right now!), I want to reconnect with the instrument that first sparked my love for music. I know it’ll be hard. Like anything else, it takes practice to get better. But this time, I’m doing it for me.

Music brings joy, peace, and a sense of connection. Playing an instrument, even imperfectly, can be a lifelong source of comfort and creativity. It’s never too late to return to something that once made you happy or to learn something new altogether!

So it doesn’t matter that I’ve lost time or feel like I’ve fallen behind. Now is the time to begin again. I’m learning to let go of perfectionism, to embrace the process, and to be proud of where I am—even if it’s “just okay.”

Next, I want to learn the guitar, and this time, I’ll carry this mindset with me: it’s okay to be just okay. I don’t have to be the best. I just have to enjoy the journey.