I teach music. A twelve-year-old boy in my class always played his violin like he was absolutely furious with it. His style was aggressive, rushed, and chaotic—almost as if he wanted to finish every single song before it had even properly started.
One day, I finally pulled him aside after class to find out what was going on. “Why do you play so fast?” I asked him. He looked down and replied, “So I can go home.” Confused, I pressed further, asking what the big rush was. He looked at me and said, “My mom works nights. If I finish early I can walk my little sister home before dark.”
He wasn’t angry at the music or the instrument at all. He was actively racing it. To him, every song was a ticking clock, and every note represented precious time ticking away between him and a seven-year-old girl waiting anxiously at her school.
Once I understood the situation, I started letting him leave ten minutes early every single session. He never had to ask. I would just give him a silent nod at the door, and he would quickly pack up his violin and run out into the daylight. While some kids play purely for joy, he played for a narrow window of safety and a little sister who was counting on him.
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