Taking a step back

Mario Bastea-Forte
March 17, 2022

There was a time when my only dream was to perform in a professional orchestra. I started playing the cello when I was 11, and by high school, playing the cello had essentially become my identity. In my mind, I was Mario the cellist. I knew that I loved performing in ensembles and getting better at my instrument, so I never felt any reason to question my path. Even when my teachers cautioned me that music was a difficult field to go into, I was willing to commit fully and do whatever it took; I wanted to be a professional cellist.

I’m not exactly sure when this desire left me, but when the pandemic hit in 2020 and performances were getting canceled left and right, I realized that I no longer felt the same connection to music I used to. I had considered branching out a few times during my studies, at times prompted by fear of not being good enough, dealing with injuries, or financial concerns. The solution that would usually spring to mind was exploring a related field like arts administration instead, but somehow that sounded like an unfulfilling “easy way out,” and I would always come back to the performance track. After all, I had told myself that I was going to make this work! So every time I had one of these internal crises, I would convince myself that I just needed to give it time, keep working hard, and eventually I would find success.

That strategy worked for a while, but by the spring of 2020, I realized that music wasn’t doing it for me anymore. Something needed to change, and I decided to take a leave of absence from my graduate studies to focus on applying for work outside of performance. I no longer wanted to be a professional cellist.

My commitment to abandoning music was unwavering, but I had no idea what my plan was beyond that. By this point, I had spent over half my life introducing myself as a cellist, and suddenly I didn’t even feel like a musician anymore. I didn’t want to practice. I couldn’t even bring myself to listen to recordings of classical music. I genuinely thought that I might sell my instrument and never play again.

Even when I finally started applying for work, my lack of direction was evident. It took me months to get anywhere, and I began seriously questioning many of my past decisions: Why didn’t I take more practical classes in school? Why didn’t I get a dual degree? Why did I even get a music degree in the first place?

Concerned friends and family would ask if I was planning to go back to school to finish the degree I left, or maybe go into a different area of study, but I would simply tell them: “No.” If the career I had been working towards for over a decade was no longer appealing, how could I be expected to find a new passion so quickly?

In the end, my stubbornness did pay off. I wanted to find work that could help me figure out what I was interested in pursuing, and I eventually landed a job where I would get to do a little bit of everything at a non-profit. I packed my bags and hopped on a plane, and next thing I knew I was starting life in a brand-new city! This adjustment to my new life came with a lot of emotions along the way, but it also brought with it a feeling that I had not experienced in quite a while: I missed playing the cello.

If I had to guess, I probably practiced between 20-30 hours total in the year before I moved. Playing the cello did not bring me much joy while I was getting nowhere applying for jobs, but once I had a full-time commitment, practicing suddenly seemed like a great way to unwind after work. There was comfort in knowing that the cello was so familiar to me when my surroundings were not, and I felt ready to welcome music back into my life.

After getting back into practicing regularly, playing also felt different than it used to. Despite devoting less time to it, I felt like I sounded better than I did in school, to the point where I have voluntarily played for friends a few times just to share this part of my life with them. I never used to do that, because I was always afraid people would be unimpressed and that it would confirm all the self-doubt I experienced in my mind. Those thoughts still linger in my mind, but they don’t occupy as much space as they used to. Playing a few notes out of tune no longer feels like it invalidates all the time I’ve spent with my instrument. I even want to get back into subbing with orchestras and gigging in addition to my other work. Almost like a…professional cellist?

This was clearly not the journey that my teenage self was expecting. I was so sure at the time that I wanted the cello to be at the center of my life, and yet that mindset is what made me feel the need to quit playing entirely. I never would have guessed that I needed to stop thinking of myself as a musician before I could consider what it means to be a musician at all. The fact that Mario the cellist was just one of the many facets of who I am was a revelation. And I wish I had come to that realization sooner, but it’s not surprising that I didn’t; I had trained myself from a young age to think that this pretty, wooden box was going to be my life.

So, what is the takeaway? I’m certainly not suggesting that everyone abandon their instruments. That ended up feeling right for me, so it’s what I did. But I do think that quite often, the only way to gain some much-needed perspective is to take a step back.

Questioning why you’re doing something doesn’t mean you aren’t serious about it, and having interests outside of music doesn’t make you any less of a musician. While I can’t go back and change how I approached music as a student, I’m happy that I am able to enjoy it again today. I look forward to telling people about why I play music in addition to my other work, and maybe my experience will be meaningful to others who feel as conflicted as I was in school.