Reflections of Freshman Year Part 1: Heart

There were many emotions throughout this first year of college. I remember crying my eyes out in happiness before I even knew where I was going to school. I was overjoyed to know that I would go to college for music and be able to make a career out of it. I have a video of my final high school concert where my conductor and mentor, Mr. McNamara (Mr. Mac), calls up the seniors and announces their school of choice and major. I watch it at least once a month. The overwhelming audible support for me is definitely one thing. But the real reason I watch it is for the bear hug I give Mr. Mac onstage. I was so happy. I was so proud of myself, of how far I had come since freshman year, and for the beautiful concert we had just played. But, if you had journeyed deeper into my heart, I was sad. I was upset to leave my high school orchestra. I was scared to leave my immediate music family behind; not just Mr. Mac, but all of my influential music teachers. I had known that I was a big fish in the small, small pond that is Connecticut. but I didn’t realize just how large the technical gap was between me and other college violinists around my age. 

When I started college, I felt resentful and jealous towards other violinists: Other violinists that started earlier, that grew up with parents who were musicians, that were able to play in regional orchestras, that went to arts high schools…But that's not the real me. Feeling jealous of other people doesn’t do anything to change the situation you’re in; it only makes you unapproachable and snobby. I don’t entirely blame myself for this sudden shift in my thinking. The world of classical music is inherently competitive. It pushes this kind of divide on musicians. I hadn’t truly felt the effects of it until the beginning of freshman year. Because of this I was lonely for a fair amount of freshman year. I remember calling my mom multiple times on the way back to my dorm, upset that I couldn’t find people my ''genre'' in my school. The friends I had managed to make weren't as close to me as my old friends. I gave up. I ate my meals alone, I practiced alone, and I walked alone in the dark after rehearsals or late nights practicing alone. It was a painful experience. It wasn’t until I started bettering my deteriorating mental health that I started making (and keeping) more friends in my school. With this, my toxic view of the other musicians around me finally faded into obscurity again. I just wanted to make music with everyone, I always have, and I did. I had wonderful orchestral and chamber music experiences, I played my first paid gigs, and I finally made friends in and out of the orchestra. 

This is yet another reason why I will always advocate for musicians' mental health. Sometimes we get so lost in becoming ''the best''— which I don’t think actually exists, but more on that another day— that we forget why we love to play. The days go on and practice becomes a chore, ensembles feel empty. Sometimes merely looking at your instrument makes you sick. These are all things my friends, new and old, and I have faced when our hearts give out. Losing sight of why you love your instrument in the first place can be devastating and make this beautiful world look dull and gray. It truly is heartbreak. My professor (Brian Lewis) has our university’s mental health services guide posted outside his office. I must have looked at that paper so many times and it wasn’t until something startling snapped inside me that I actually ended up calling them. I hope that in the future I and others will remember to lean on our rocks before that snap. Humans are a social species, it's okay that we cannot do this on our own.