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Nothing traumatic happened. I didn’t suffer from university-level burnout. I didn’t grow anxious under the pressure (but I did watch that happen to my roommate and it was awful). I just . . . lost the love.
My professors and my directors and my university counsellor, not to mention my parents and my roommates, reminded me daily that playing an instrument is not all about play. That I needed to push past the wall. That this talent I had given my life to was work, and I needed to be willing to work it.
And I knew all of that. And I tried. I went to class, I put in the practice time, I played in both my orchestras and at the occasional wedding. But I didn’t care anymore. The music still sounded good, but it didn’t sing to me, didn’t sing through me. I spent years loving the violin, and then I didn’t.
So I finished out the school year and told my parents I was going back to Vermont—there was no way I could go home after living “on my own” for all of high school and a year of college. I applied for the library assistant position at Chamberlain Academy. Having just graduated a year before, I was a known quantity, I guess. But there were plenty of unknowns.
When I interviewed with Dr. Moreau, I could hear the questions she wasn’t asking me filling her office. Why the library? Why Chamberlain? Why not any number of orchestras, where I could probably get an audition with the snap of my fingers? Why not get work as a studio musician?
But she kept her questions to the list on her tablet.
Mrs. Wanda Chamberlain, head of the Chamberlain Trust and beloved campus grandma? Not so much. As I stood from my interview, Wanda stood along with me, taking me by the arm and walking out of the Hall at my side.
“Sage,” she said, patting my hand and looking up at me. “What’s going on? Why are you here?”
Somehow, she can get away with saying things like that without sounding judgmental and horrible. Even so, I knew it was only the beginning of that kind of questioning. I knew I should be grateful she was actually asking me, instead of whispering about me as I passed by. If I got this job, that was going to happen. It was a given.
“I like it here,” I told her.
She raised her perfectly penciled eyebrows. “I like it here, too.”
Relief. I nodded. “So you understand.”
She shook her head. “I really don’t. You have an exceptional talent. Why aren’t you returning to your music study?”
I wondered at the time how much she already knew. Now, of course, I know that Wanda knew everything. Wanda always knows everything.
Deciding to tell her the truth, I stopped on the sidewalk in the June afternoon and turned to her. “I wasn’t feeling it anymore.”
I knew it was lame, of course. The words snagged on my mouth coming out. This was not the person I was raised to be, someone who just shrugged off years of work and effort and intense study. Not to mention privilege.
But even though it was difficult to confess what felt significantly shameful, I also knew it was true. I didn’t love playing anymore, and I didn’t want to give more of my life to something I didn’t love.
I wondered if Wanda would scoff. If she’d tell me to grow up. If she’d shake her head in disappointment. If she’d give me a version of my dad’s talk: the one about doing the job you[ve committed to, even if the job doesn’t bring you joy.
But those imagined responses were not what I got.
Instead, she took a small step back, looked straight into my eyes, and smiled. Holding out her arms, she closed the distance between us. She hugged me. And she held me for a long time without speaking. She didn’t offer solutions or recommendations or criticism or opinions. She held me in her embrace, and that was enough. It felt like some of the splintered parts of me were coming together, resealing.
And right now, as I stand on that very stretch of sidewalk, this time canopied by trees changing from green to gold and red, I can still feel the comfort of that hug. I feel the continuing validation that I know myself and that I not only can, but ought to make my own decisions. That I should listen to my heart.
Which is awesome, but there’s that tiny problem of my heart changing its mind.
I pull the door of the library open and step inside, the smell of old wood and musty paper enveloping me. I definitely did not spend enough time in here when I was a student. But last year and this fall I’ve been happily surrounded by this place and its magic.
Desi Chappell hears the door and looks up. She grins and waves me over. I lean across the circulation desk and say hi.
“How did it go?” she asks.
Desi is a great boss. I mean, technically, the Chamberlain Trust is my boss, but everyone knows the library belongs to Desi. She’s excited about keeping up tradition and moving forward at the same time, and her sense of balance is pretty admirable. Also, she has the greatest boyfriend. He’s terrible at using a library voice, but we all love Hank Grantham.
I give her a thumbs up. “Good. I’m probably not suffering from a critical lack of vitamin K.”
Desi smiles and nods. She gets it. “I’m glad to hear it.” She glances around, and when she sees we’re alone, she says, “Anything else?”
It’s nice that she’s keeping her questions about my healthcare at least a little bit private.
“That’s all for this month,” I say with a laugh.
