Passion vs Grit

 What object tells the story of your life? 

In the first four years of my music life, I never stuck to an instrument and easily gave up when things got too difficult or when I suddenly lost interest. At age 7, I quit the piano, just as I started learning how to play octaves. Struggling to stretch my short fingers across the keyboard one day, I exploded with frustration and called it the end of my piano career. A year later, I quit the violin for a similar reason--as I complained to my parents, my shoulders hurt too much. As a kid, I seriously lacked grit and consistency. Most of my pursuits rose and fell in a cycle: at first, I would get extremely passionate and work in bursts of intense enthusiasm, but once that initial flame settled, I would move on to the next thing that captivated me.

When I started my third instrument, cello, in 5th grade, I was on fire: I was in love with the deep, rich sound of the instrument and spent hours playing it every day, sometimes without break until I was drenched in sweat and the tips of my fingers ached from the intense practice. For a while, my passion for the cello seemed everlasting, and solely depending on it for motivation worked pretty well. In 7th grade, I was accepted into a local youth orchestra as the youngest player there, and simultaneously moved out of the Suzuki series and embarked on more difficult, energetic pieces that I loved, no longer confined to Mozart or other classical pieces alike. Nothing could have been more perfect: I loved the songs I was playing and the sound I was making, saw myself improving rapidly, and--though I didn't realize at the time--I wasn't struggling or having difficulties, as any potential pain or frustration was numbed by the intense enthusiasm that powered me in every practice session.

I was at the height of this momentum at the beginning of 8th grade, when I had started my first concerto. Concertos, long solo pieces accompanied by an orchestra, are what the world-famous cellists I admired often played, the familiar yet mind-boggling melodies that I had longed to challenge myself to one day. When it actually came to practicing the concerto, however, I quickly broke down. In the face of new techniques requiring consistent, prolonged drills for mastery, I found myself plagued by the same impatience and exasperation that broke out of me the day I decided to quit the piano. Suddenly, my excitement for the new piece morphed into dread. I started skipped days of practice. And when I manged to pin myself down to practice, I didn't feel the eagerness and energy that drove me to blast through hours without feeling tired. Playing the cello felt so much harder and less fun than they used to be. I considered quitting.

But unlike six years ago, when a simple "I want to quit" felt like an easy remark, there was so much more at stake at quitting. Numerous thoughts stormed my head: How much of my parents' money would I have wasted? How far behind would I be if I started another instrument? Then, I asked, Would I ever become good at something if I kept on giving up? In the previous three years of assimilating to the U.S., I pushed myself in unprecedented ways and overcame big obstacles on my own. In the process, I endured various forms of emotional and mental difficulties and learned that unpleasant experiences were a part of the journey for achieving a large goal. This time, I eventually decided, I would keep going; I wouldn't rely on the transitory feelings of excitement for motivation and instead would focus on putting in consistent effort, even when I don't feel like it. With this new mindset, I brought myself to unzip my cello case and started practicing one step at a time, carefully working through the drills. In a few weeks, I found myself loving my cello again, feeling my "passion" come to life as I energetically performed a new page of the concerto I had now become comfortable with. Although it took me much more conscious effort and forcing to improve my skills, I learned to find meaning in the moments of struggle, seeing the magnitude of my pain as an indicator of how much I am growing.

The past three years of my relationship with my cello has been marked by similar ups and downs. I am still prone to cramming a late-night practice the day before a lesson or pushing aside cello--either intentionally or unintionally--to focus on other commitments for weeks on end until the next audition or competition. I'm still coming to terms with a more general idea about passion that I've been realizing: Nothing can be exciting and fun forever, and for any goals or paths we pursue, there will inevitably come a time when all the newness is gone and we are left to push through the steep uphill curve without the extra bursts of excitement. Whether we decide to endure the challenge or give up is our choice--a choice on which our long-term success depends.