My Violin Recital—Part 2

Sometimes we need help fixing precious things… and that’s ok. (2025)

This is Part 2 of ‘My Violin Recital’. To read part 1, click here:

My Violin Recital Part 2

Part 2 is paired with a broken violin taken apart in repair. This piece is raw, unfiltered, and intentionally unresolved.

It’s showing what was beneath all that pressure: an inner critic.

Not everyone is arguing with themselves—Some people are constantly being screamed at, not because they lack confidence but because they were conditioned under constant attack.

Even now, I cannot simply say, “I am a student. I am an artist. I am a writer.” 

I must also say… 

I am compelled every time— 

With the need to say, “ But I’m also an engineer.” 

As if the other person is looking at me, judging me, 

With cold eyes like my mother. 

“Ah, another stupid artist, with his head up in the clouds, 

Who doesn’t know the difference between fantasy and living in reality… 

Who let’s emotions run wild like crashing waves 

Smashing into innocent bystanders just going about their day. 

Ah, an artist has no value…is lazy, probably drunk or on drugs,

Can’t be bothered to work like all the rest of us. 

Probably can’t hold down a job—

How will he support a family? 

So selfish. 

Who does he think he is? 

Does he think he’s special? 

Everyone wants to be an artist.. 

Be realistic—stop being stupid.” 

Maybe they don’t say it out loud but I can hear their voices.

I hear my dad’s words to my uncle’s innocent question— 

“So good! Why not art?” 

And his answer? 

Something I wasn’t ever supposed to hear… 

The true reason, 

Why he never allowed me— 

To change course, 

“Be eaten alive” were my dad’s words. 

Did he really think a tech-bro or a manager’s snickering snide remarks, 

Would really be that much better?

The fear runs deep and even though I dance alone with my violin, 

Free from judgmental eyes, 

I cannot call myself a musician. 

For I remember everyone else who is so much better than me—

And all those who started so much earlier than me. 

Look at my sweaty palms, 

Afraid of the pause, 

Afraid of making a stupid mistake. 

Afraid of losing my place— 

Forgetting a song someone else wrote—

That which does not speak to me. 

My palms now a torrent of sweat— 

Dripping down the violin’s neck. 

Look see now, 

Pathetic— 

You can barely play—

My head screams at me. 

“What is that noise? 

That awful squeak. 

Just shut up don’t play”— 

I hear them say. 

I stop. 

I look out at the crowd. 

Their faces merging before me— 

Into a monstrous wave with sharp teeth eager to swallow me.  

I look down at my violin in sadness and shame. 

It’s been here with me this whole time throughout tears of pain… 

But I still remember going up to my mother, 

Tugging at her floral skirt, 

“Mama, I want a violin—

To fiddle around a campfire— 

See people dancing with joy.” 

Only to see that dream stripped clean 

By fear years later… something I could not foresee. 

But a year ago— 

When I started, 

With fear in my chest, 

To finally begin to play in among other people again… 

When I sat at an Irish bar here on these streets 

With my fellow musicians kindly welcoming—

Reassuring me—

Not long after, 

We were sent a notice to shut up—don’t play. 

Don’t play. 

Don’t play. 

Don’t play. 

Shut up—don’t play. 

The noise—what a racket. 

No one wants to hear you play. 

So my violin lays in its dusty case, out of tune— 

Untouched. 

Words— 

Other people’s voices fill my head, 

“You’re wasting money! 

You stupid child! 

Count, count, count, count! 

What are you doing? 

Stop it—don’t play!”

Now adults, 

We don’t have time. 

We must not play. 

There is work to do—

Stop it with your head stuck in the clouds. 

You stupid child—there is no time for play! 

You got a 92? 

Look at your friend! 

They were perfect! 

Look how they perform—

Beautifully perfect!

You’re just like your sister!

Stop moving! 

Stop dancing while you play! 

You look like some crazy person— 

And hear that? 

With all your dancing— 

It does not sound crisp or clear. 

You must stop moving! 

Stop dancing— 

Stop playing! 

But I want to play— 

I want to see kids and adults dancing. 

I want to be the traveling bard on the street— 

With children dancing at my feet. 

Giving them a tune in their hearts, something sweet— 

And sending them on their way. 

I want to write songs and heartfelt letters that melts hearts led astray. 

I want to create stories, 

Paint visions— 

Of life— 

Life loved, 

Life filled with joy. 

I want to see themselves imagining—

Dancing unencumbered by shame.

I want to create something— 

Where had I seen it, 

Or maybe heard it sooner… 

I would have stopped in my tracks— 

Stopped worrying—

Ignored the judgmental eyes boring. 

Maybe I would have joined in on the play! 

I would not be here, 

Forcing myself to remember to move, to dance… 

It would be a habit—

Formed by lifelong joys of play.

I would have known the joy of my body— 

Running, dancing, sprinting—

Imagining—

Learning—

The joys of play. 

But instead I remember all my childhood bullies, 

And at the forefront—

My mother. 

My dad sadly looking away, 

“Some people were not meant to play with the others—

You’re like me. 

Come— 

Let’s analyze things away. 

For those of the body will never accept those of the mind— 

For we think much differently—

You and I. 

Look at this train—

See how it runs. 

Look at this engine and carburetor—

See how the voltage sparks 

Across these plugs.” 

But daddy, I understand now how these things work— 

But without you—

These things don’t spark my heart with joy! 

“Don’t worry about that. 

Work will always be work. 

It’s who you work with that will bring you joy.” 

But as I worked and worked and worked, 

I saw my friends turn into competition before my very eyes! 

My head screaming—

“You’re not smart enough! Stop it! Stop trying!” 

And even though I told myself it was a lie— 

I could do it—just keep trying! 

I never saw the passion within myself—

Just a helpful sidekick observing— 

Standing by. 

It did not come close to my dad’s passion 

Or to my friend’s— 

As they sat down after work—

To continue to code. 

Keeping up the the latest technological news.

How will I ever keep up,

When I don’t carry a flame—

I’m going to be left behind.

Wow—

I really am stupid— 

For leaving my flame behind. 

This metal mirror— 

This thing in my pocket— 

Rarely brings me joy. 

What have I done with my life— 

To bring about so much blindness and pain? 

I’m not talking about working at Apple 

Or even the hours spent doom scrolling… 

No, my own life spent fretting, 

Afraid of judgmental Redditors, 

Vitamin-D deficient basement dwellers, 

All jeering— 

“How stupid you are—

Why, if only you had thought about X, Y, and Z! 

You stupid, stupid idiot, 

The air is wasted on thee!” 

Surely this is reaffirming what my mother thought of me. 

The world is filled with these people—

I’m alone in this tunnel,

Monsters lurking in crevices, snarling—

Without a flame to guide me!

And so here I am. 

A life full of fear—

Not of bears in the woods 

Having hiked across hundreds of miles— 

On mountains and great lands. 

But of my own people—

My mother and father—

Their disapproval snarls at me.

Now— 

I quiver when I speak my truth—

I deny myself that power. 

I deny myself touch.

I deny myself love.

I deny myself joy. 

An ambitious, little gnat in my head rants,

Salivating—

Foaming at the lips with bared teeth,

“You will never get far with these.”

Afraid of other people. 

Their words in my head—

You’re so stupid…

You haven’t worked hard enough…

So pathetic…

What ever made you think you could be— 

Enough? 

And even though I’ve had years of therapy,

Working relentlessly to heal me,

And even though things are so much better,

Than where I was before I turned 30—

I sit here— 

Compromising with myself—

Be realistic—

Stop being stupid! 

Your words? 

Why—

They haven’t even changed your beloved father’s own heart! 

Be nihilistic!

How I miss my dad, my best friend—

His worrying smile. 

I miss the building of models and late night— 

Bond, James Bond—

Marathoning. 

Why—

I even miss the slumped over, 

Tear stained nights as he tried desperately, 

To explain to me,

How to tackle and balance the long, half-page 

Mathematics equation— 

Looming over me. 

And I’m just writing. 

I can’t stop. 

I’m tired. 

My mind does not let exhaustion overwhelm me.

I’m sad. 

I’m hungry. 

I’m mad. 

And I too, am scared. 

I have to do all these things—

I have too many things I need to do.

I keep telling myself to be big. 

I’m strong—

I can do this—

Keep going. 

Now the breath work meditation is in the background—

Continuously looping. 

Tonight is poetry night and I’m nervous and in fright. 

My inner critic—

An insect— 

A big-hollowed eyed creature,

With long slender fingers and buzzing mosquito-like wings—

Whispers— 

“No one person here wants to hear sad-sopping stories. 

Life is hard enough as it is—

Stop reminding—

It’s uncomfortably overwhelming!” 

But I can’t stop. 

I can’t stop thinking. 

I wake up throughout the nights in a sweat needing to keep writing. 

If there is a chance, however so small— 

I could help someone like me…

Or even…

Bring my dad back to give me a hug…

I will continue with hope. 

I won’t stop trying.