This Piano Still

I started piano to avoid nap time in kindergarten
when I was four years old. The grand piano in our home came from my grandmother. She had saved for years to buy it, for me, and quietly, for my mother too.
Thirteen years later, I play in orchestras, accompany concerts, and sit beside people in hospital corridors who close their eyes instead of applaud. I'm leaving for university soon. My mother has just started learning to play. The music, it turns out, was always meant for both of us

Beneath the Notes

Growing up, piano was simply there ： in the house, in my hands, in the hours before dinner. Over time, I began to notice that the way I listened was changing. I wasn't just hearing the notes anymore. I was hearing the decisions behind them: why this phrase slows down, why this chord feels unresolved, what the composer was reaching for.
For me, Music and science are not as different as they seem. Both are ways of taking the world apart. I need carefully and curiously to understand what holds it together. When I play, I'm listening for the structure beneath the notes. I've come to realize the same instinct that draws me into a laboratory.

Performace Gallery

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Presence

Where the Music Goes

Not every performance has an audience that applauds, and not every performance happens in a concert hall. Over the years, my piano has taken me to places I never expected — a noisy hospital lobby, a school stage, a graduation ceremony. In each of these places, I wasn't the main act. I was there to hold the music together for someone else. That, I've come to believe, is where piano means the most.

One Quiet Thing

Since tenth grade, I have spent almost two hours every week playing piano in the lobby of a children's hospital. The air is full of machines, footsteps, and crying. A piano doesn't belong there — and yet, people stop. One afternoon, a boy with an IV drip walked over and placed his apple on the piano. He grinned at me. I kept playing. That apple told me everything I needed to know.

Behind Every Voice

At the school music festival, I sat behind the choir with my back to the audience. No one was watching me — and that was exactly how it should be. In those moments, the room went quiet in a way that only music can create. I wasn't there to be seen. I was there to listen, to hold the sound together, and to make sure the voices in front of me had somewhere to land.

One Song, Everyone

At the graduation ceremony, I was the keyboard player in the school band. It wasn't my graduation. The moment belonged to the students walking across the stage, to their families in the audience. I was simply there, playing. And in that quietness, I realized that music doesn't need to be yours to move you. It just needs to be present. So did I.