My battle for life at Indiana University Bloomington began literally the first day of class my freshman year. I was walking through the halls of my new music school when I saw a big poster touting "Abortion Access", a talk given by IU professors and sponsored by the university. I was so upset I ran out of there crying. I felt so small compared to the immense evil present on campus. Just a few days later, I ran into one of my best friends who was on her way to a Students for Life event. I was so relieved to hear IU had a pro-life club, and I enjoyed meeting several other pro-life students that day. We all agreed to go pray the Rosary together outside the pro-abortion event. Yes, we got weird looks standing in the hallway reciting the sorrowful mysteries, but we wanted to be a visible, counter-cultural presence. At the same time, I learned that three of the girls who ran the club were fellow violinists! An enticing idea immediately sprung to mind: what if we combined our musical talent and our passion for life by hosting a classical music concert for the Women's Care Center? My new friends loved the idea, and the next six months were filled with finding repertoire, rehearsing (the most beautiful and hilarious rehearsals of my life), calling venues, and advertising. Another pro-life student, a pianist who had just given her solo debut at Carnegie Hall, joined our endeavor. It was not easy because IU's music school is incredibly time-consuming even without extra projects, and sometimes we were completely exhausted. But none of us wanted to give up on this mission. In early February, the day finally arrived. We decorated the hall of our Catholic student center with Christmas lights, pink roses, and backdrops of baroque castles, and dressed up in blue evening gowns. The Women's Care Center made refreshments. Even though we had put six months of planning into this concert, I had no idea what to expect. However, the hall was absolutely packed, and everyone thoroughly enjoyed an evening of music, laughter, and real joy. We were receiving compliments for months afterward from people asking when we were going to do it again. But the best surprise of all came when the WCC emailed me after counting up donations. Even though we had not charged admission and asked only for free will donations, during our one-hour performance we had raised over $2,700 in cash and a mountain of baby diapers. I couldn't believe it! A small idea shared between five friends turned into the most beautiful pro-life event of the year. Even though we are professional-level players, we did everything for free so that every penny of those donations would go to saving babies. I have been standing outside abortion clinics with friends and family since I was a little girl, and even though it was important to me then I never knew just how much of a passion it would become. Through years of rallies, pro-life speech competitions in high school, and now my role leading Students for Life at one of America's largest public universities, I know one thing for certain: no matter where I go, I will always be fighting for every human life.

A very successful and wise musician recently said to me that "teaching is a performing art". The more I teach, the more I realize how true that is. On the surface, teaching beginner pianists and violinists might seem pretty straightforward and formulated, but I have to be so creative, engaging, and adaptable to make sure my teaching really comes across. For example, meet my anthropomorphic metronome named Frank. I tell all my students that Frank is my best friend who keeps me from cheating when I practice. I also say that when I don't listen to Frank and don't play a steady beat, he becomes very very sad because he just wanted to help. It's amazing what a difference it makes to personify and dramatize things for kids who ordinarily would loathe metronome practice as a chore. The other day I was working with a particular little boy who, despite his earnestness, had some difficulty staying in rhythm. I brought out Frank to help. After a little bit, the boy asked to see my sticker collection and said, "What's Frank's favorite color?" He then gave the metronome a hug and a big red flower sticker to "cheer him up." I love kids. Other music teachers might see me tell kids that they're "making my metronome sad" and call it guilt-tripping or manipulative. But that little boy walked out of my studio smiling instead of crying. Studies have shown that people who learn things through play learn and retain more. If my creativity helps students to have more meaningful learning experiences, then Frank and I are going to be a team for a long time.

"This is made out of what?" That's a fairly common phrase around our dinner table, particularly when my mom brings out a dish of "brownies" for dessert, only to tell us that they're made from dates, walnuts, cocoa powder, and some mysterious substance called date sugar. Healthy eating has been important in my family for years, but I took a renewed interest in it after my mom's intense chronic cough vanished only a few weeks after switching to a plant-based diet. At the same time, I was also preparing for college violin auditions, and needed a way to balance my musical practice with personal well-being. For the two months of audition season, I adopted the following plan: eat a sugar-free, plant-based diet, go for daily walks, do daily Alexander Technique (a type of relaxation/mindfulness method) and always get eight or nine hours of sleep. Although it was difficult at first to fit these stipulations into my schedule, the results were more than worth the effort. At my audition I felt almost none of the typical jitters and negative thoughts because I was well-rested and had no sugar to shake up my system. I firmly believe that my acceptance to all the programs I applied at was due in large part to how I cared for my health in an otherwise stressful time. Since then, healthy living has become more of a habit. I'm much more sensitive now to when I overeat or don't get enough fresh air. At college, I fully intend to carry on by limiting my sweets to special occasions and keeping track of my food intake and exercise. There will certainly still be temptations, but if learning self-control now gives me another few years to hug my grandchildren, I don't think I'll regret it.

Every week, I drive to a large and rather imposing Montessori school to spend the next several hours telling young children that no, a treble clef is not the same thing as a metronome. It’s exhausting work, yet I always strive to find the humor and purpose in it as well. As I drove home the other day, I reflected on how I got to this point. No one told me as a four-year-old that fourteen years later I would be preparing for college violin auditions, teaching forty students, and practicing Bach fugues and Sibelius. It wasn’t until almost high school that I learned I absolutely loved the teaching process. I hungered for ways to tell five-year-olds the game-changing tips no one had told me back then. I spent plenty of time mulling it over, and thought I had devised a system guaranteed to work perfectly with almost any student. When I actually started teaching, reality set in. I had not factored in varying personalities, work ethics, and family situations. I quickly saw that most children became overwhelmed or unmotivated. While stressful, the experience certainly put me in my place: a seventeen-year-old cannot faultlessly expound on musical techniques, sure-fire practice routines, and child psychology. If I wanted to teach, I would have to understand each student’s goals and motivations, and enjoy the opportunity to lift their minds, hearts, and souls to greater joy. I sometimes feel guilty about spending five hours a day in the practice room. The world is so broken, isn’t there something else I should be doing? But when I perform or teach, my fears dissipate. In a way I can’t express, others need this. One father had to bribe his four-year-old daughter to get back in the car after her first lesson because she wanted to stay longer. Her innocent musical fascination put my ambitions to shame. The darkness in this life is the reason we must create light. Music is not an “escape,” but a part of the battle. Dostoyevsky’s famous quote, “Beauty will save the world,” is both a prophecy and a challenge. He urges us to pursue the aesthetic as a means of overcoming the atheistic. It is this struggle that inspires me to continue making music. It may mean hours, weeks, and years of work, but if I can bring light to one soul in darkness it will have been worth it.

A few weeks ago I finished the intense, multi-month adventure of college violin auditions. After weeks of four or five-hour practice sessions, I knew I needed a breather. I arranged to stay with some friends out-of-town for five days. They were incredibly generous to let me stay with them, and I didn't want to inconvenience anyone more than necessary, so I decided to bring all my own meals. The day before I left, I made a detailed, no-frills attack plan (a.k.a. shopping list) and headed to Strack and Van Til's, Northwest Indiana's premier grocer and florist. It would be an understatement to say I don't like shopping. It involves confronting my three biggest weak spots: wasting time, making choices, and spending money. Walking through the granola bar aisle is like walking through an Alaskan avalanche danger zone. One wrong move and I might leave with three boxes of triple chocolate cherry cashew bars. Which is precisely why I write out a detailed list beforehand and bring only a certain amount of money. On this occasion, as my eyes strayed to the fresh pretzel buns and the yogurt parfaits, I reminded myself that I was no longer a kid with extra cash to spend, but rather a young adult planning a week's trip on my own. I had recently started creating a monthly budget, and the number one rule is: prioritize. If I can't prioritize and practice restraint in high school, what makes me think I'll be able to do it as a college graduate? Ultimately, I walked out of Strack's with boxed soup, salad, and fruit. I knew that if satisfying my sweet tooth meant starving my budget, it wasn't worth it. Besides, healthy eating supports mental health, and rational thinking is the key to rational spending.

I wanted to slap her. Except that you can't slap a seven-year-old. In two years of working with young music students, I have never yelled at them. But with this girl, I was close. I'd known for weeks that she wanted to quit playing piano, and since neither I nor her mother would give in, she'd perfected the art of making lessons as excruciating as possible. This day was no different. I asked her to play something, and she refused. When I gently reminded her that I was the teacher, she said "Yeah, and that means that since I come to your house so you can teach me stuff, I'm the boss of you." A pregnant pause followed. I had three choices. In my anger, I could go tell her mother and make the girl apologize. Or I could tell her to go home, but then again that's exactly what she wanted. So instead I took a deep breath and answered, "Ella, this makes me very sad. I love teaching, and when I ask you to do something, it's because I want to help you. I know you like being in charge of things, but sometimes we all need help from someone who knows things we don't know. I can't help you if we fight all the time, and it really hurts. So I'll ask one more time: who is in charge here?" She stared at the keyboard, and finally said "I guess you are." A few months later, Ella played in her first recital. In the subsequent weeks, she started practicing twice as much and looked happy to come to lessons. If I had thrown her out of my studio that day, she would never have experienced the motivation of performing, which might forever change her life.

I have to admit, even as a classical violin student I don't always enjoy listening to classical music. Yes, it is beautiful and inspiring, but often I get too caught up in my own incompetence to truly enjoy it. Violin concertos specifically are difficult to listen to. However, there is one that I can listen to over and over and always feel better afterwards, even after a difficult practice session. Samuel Barber's Violin Concerto is not one of the best-known in the repertoire, but it is one of the most beautiful. The first movement broadly paints an incredible scope of emotions, from peace to anxiety, anger to resolve, and hope to triumph. It has some incredible technical fireworks, but in general is much more lyrical than most major concertos. I had wanted to learn the piece for some time and finally got a chance to play it this summer. The glory of the piece helps me bring beauty out of my instrument, and also helps me remember the real reason I play: to bring a little light to a world in darkness.

Every week, I drive to a large and rather imposing Montessori school to spend the next several hours telling young children that no, a treble clef is not the same thing as a metronome. It’s exhausting work, yet I always strive to find the humor and purpose in it as well. As I drove home the other day, I reflected on how I got to this point. No one told me as a four-year-old that fourteen years later I would be preparing for college violin auditions, teaching forty students, and practicing Bach fugues and Sibelius. Even if they had, I probably would not have listened. My father is a professional musician, so he taught me and all my siblings to sing and play instruments. I didn’t realize what a gift it was to sing Palestrina masses with professional singers or play Beethoven overtures in youth orchestras. As fantastic as it was, I took much of it for granted. It was just something I did, and to be honest I didn’t focus on it (or anything else) for most of my childhood. It wasn’t until almost high school that I learned I absolutely loved the teaching process. I hungered for ways to explain to five-year-olds the game-changing tips no one had told me until I was sixteen. I spent plenty of time mulling it over, and thought I had devised a system guaranteed to work perfectly with almost any student. Then when I actually started teaching, reality set in. I had not factored in varying personalities, work ethics, and family situations. I quickly saw that most children were overwhelmed and unmotivated. While stressful, the experience certainly put me in my place: a seventeen-year-old cannot faultlessly expound on musical techniques, sure-fire practice routines, and child psychology. If I wanted to teach, I would have to understand each student’s goals and motivations, rather than imposing my own on them, and enjoy the opportunity to lift their minds, hearts, and souls to greater joy. I sometimes feel guilty about spending five hours a day in the practice room. The world is so broken, isn’t there something more important I should be doing? But when I perform or teach, my fears dissipate. In a way I can’t express, they need this. One father had to bribe his four-year-old daughter to get back in the car after her first lesson because she wanted to stay longer. Her innocent fascination with music put my self-centered ambitions to shame. The darkness in this life is the reason we must create more light. Music is not an “escape,” but a part of the battle. Dostoyevsky’s famous quote, “Beauty will save the world,” is both a prophecy and a challenge. He urges us to pursue the aesthetic as a means of overcoming the atheistic. It is this struggle that inspires me to continue making music. It may mean hours, weeks, and years of work, but if I can bring light to one soul in darkness it will have been worth it.

When you find yourself feeling exhausted, talentless, and miserable, what gets you going again? Are you driven to work exponentially harder to compensate for your shortcomings, hoping to overcome the slump by sheer work ethic? Or do you give yourself a complete break, which is refreshing at first but when prolonged only compounds the lack of productivity? This is a dilemma I find myself in often. As a young musician, it is easy to constantly compare myself to others and feel that the only solution is to double my efforts. However, burnout is a high risk for aspiring artists, and I know I can only push myself so far before collapsing. On the other hand, when I take things easy and give myself plenty of relaxation time, I feel like I should be using the gifts I have for something beautiful, not just sitting around. So I feel guilty when I do work and guilty when I don't. Add looming college auditions, self-imposed perfectionist standards, and a pandemic, and it's a recipe for disaster. One afternoon a few weeks ago, I was particularly feeling the effects of all three. Even though I have been playing violin for fourteen years, I was in one of those moods where it seemed like it was pointless. I wasn't sure why I did it anymore, why I should spend so much time on something that I thought had limited visible results. In addition to my practicing schedule, I teach about twenty violin and piano students. That afternoon, I had an introductory lesson with a six-year-old boy whose mother informed me he had high-functioning autism. I had never worked with a special needs student before, but I did as much research as I could, made the studio very clean and organized, and prepared a number of resources, having no idea what to expect. I smiled, was as cheerful and patient as possible, and gave the boy his very own piano book to take home. Everything went very well, but after half an hour of pretending to be happier than I was, I didn't exactly have more energy, and my mood continued downhill. A few hours later I checked my email. There was a message from the mother of the student which read, "I just wanted to let you know that he has been working on his book ever since we got home. Thanks so much for everything." I was floored. All day, I had been stressing about my future. Would I make it? What school would I get into? How hard would I have to work for scholarships? Was practicing violin worth it if I couldn't end up a professional? Was I a good musician if I didn't get paid? But this little boy had just started playing piano that afternoon, and I realized his instant, inherent love of music put my worrying and negativity to shame. Did it really matter if I never played in Carnegie Hall? Accolades from a crowd of sophisticated concert-goers may add to my perceived value as a player, but the joy I had given him in a thirty-minute piano lesson in my basement was priceless. In a way, he was already a better musician than me, because he did it for the right reasons: not for ambition, praise, or money, but rather for the sake of discovery. In ten seconds, that text message turned my whole day around and taught me a lesson I have not forgotten. There will always be hundreds (or thousands) of musicians better than me, but that is irrelevant because I DO have something of value to share. I find working with children, especially those with special needs or other difficult situations, extremely rewarding, because I can see it change their lives in ways I can never predict. I don't teach just because I have to make money, or because I "can't make it" as a performer. I teach because I find true value and beauty in every single human being I meet. I teach because the grin of a seven-year-old who is showing her daddy how she can play Three Blind Mice is the best paycheck there is. I teach because music was never meant exclusively for the most talented: throughout history, it was meant to be shared. Over the next several years, things won't be perfect and I know I'll be in many more ruts. But my love for creating moments of joy for others motivated me beyond my doubts. I'll still work hard, but with less guilt, because really, what I think of my own playing doesn't matter. what matters is that others are moved to laughter and tears by what I do for them.

I sincerely believe that am literally incapable of quitting the violin. Nearly every morning, I wake up before six to organize my day and then do four hours of violin practice before lunch. If necessary I do more in the afternoon, so that between practicing, teaching, studying, and rehearsals, I'm usually exploring music-related activities at least five to eight hours a day. Some days already feel like a full-time commitment. The reason I believe I'm "incapable of quitting" is that occasionally, I walk into my room intending to grab a book, check my email, or go to bed, and the next thing I know I've absent-mindedly opened my violin case instead. Making music is such an ingrained habit that even though I've often thought about quitting, I know inside I never could. Among those who truly love music, my routine is not unusual and doesn't compare to some young musicians I know. What is remarkable is the fact that I developed my inflexible practice habit during a time when I had nothing to practice for. I was not always a diligent musician. I knew I liked to play, but I practiced too fast, too carelessly, and not enough. In a musical family, I had many wonderful examples of dedication and excellence, but for the most part, I ignored my wonderful environment and assumed I would never be good enough because I simply couldn't play like that. I didn't realize that my poor practice habits were prematurely sabotaging my own future. Fast forward several years: encouraged by wonderful parents and patient teachers, I succeeded at some auditions and began playing in youth orchestras. I was now playing orchestral classics by my favorite composers, which helped motivate me to practice more but not necessarily better (an important distinction). I still took days off whenever I felt like it and only played the songs I liked. Regardless, my playing slowly improved, and I got the chance to audition for my orchestra's concerto competition. I lost the first time. And the second time. By that point, repeatedly preparing for auditions finally convinced me that I needed to change my approach. I finally started doing everything I had avoided: metronomes, daily scales, etudes, recording myself, practicing when I felt like watching movies. It paid off, and I was scheduled to perform part of the Tchaikovsky violin concerto live with the orchestra in May of 2020. Which, obviously, didn't happen. And neither did any of the other opportunities that I had finally become qualified for. The reason I liked music was that I could play with others, and suddenly I...couldn't. But I made a choice. I had challenged myself that year to practice every single day, no matter how upset or worried I felt. I took lessons online so I kept having new things to work on. Instead of thinking about what might come next, I tried to focus on what I could accomplish now. Some days I was sick, or traveling, or flat-out didn't know why I even bothered. But I practiced. That is how it became a part of me. I grew more in that time of playing alone than I ever had previously. I gained the confidence to start my own teaching, and now I have 18 students. After the 365-day challenge ended, I continued my practice regimen with far less effort because I had built the stamina. I needed that time of solitude to refocus so that I could truly give my best when I performed again. One of the things I tell my students is that success is not about how motivated or how talented you think you are. It's about how often you can put in the work even on the worst days. Not because you have to, but because you can. Not for yourself, but for others. For the rest of my time as a musician and teacher, I hope to instill in my students not just the love of music, but a love for life. Young people today need to understand that the ability to strive intensely for something good is an honor, not a burden. Yes, it will be hard. But above all, it will be beautiful.

As a lifelong musician myself, there are many songs that motivate me and inspire me to improve my art and use it to profoundly affect my whole life. But one of the most powerful is "The Impossible Dream." It summarizes many of the virtues I believe in: love, perseverance, courage in the face of calamity, and the unfailing joy of life. The rest of my playlist elaborates on the same themes. As a private music teacher, I hope to bring this same love and joy to children every day, so that they can learn to reach their unreachable star.

As a baptized, church-going Catholic, God has always been an important part of my life. Unfortunately, I have not always considered Him the center of my life. Through my own fault, I get caught up in my ambitions and worries rather than using my talents directly to make Jesus known to the world. This is a journey that I know will take a lifetime, but by God's grace, I am learning to quietly persevere in the struggle for charity, peace, and joy. I still fail sometimes, but in those moments God can call softly to lift me up. A few years ago, we were helping my Grandma to move from the house she had lived in for sixty years. My family had just moved ourselves a few years ago, and I was still getting used to all the changes of a different place and way of life. As a high school student, I was also feeling uncertainty about what direction God wanted my life to go in. Going through the laborious task of organizing my grandparents' lifetime accumulation of objects in only a few days was definitely not helping my peace of mind. In the corner of one room, I uncovered a small shoebox that was filled with prayers, scripture verses, and holy cards. My Grandma must have received dozens of prayer cards over the years and it seemed she had kept most of them. They were all beautiful, but one, in particular, caught my eye. In flowing script over a picture of Jesus' Sacred Heart it said, "The Surrender Novena." A novena in the Catholic Church is a series of nine short prayers and reflections meant to be said for nine consecutive days as a way of entrusting yourself more completely to God's Will. In my current emotional and spiritual state, a novena about surrendering to Jesus' Perfect Love was exactly what I needed. I took it home and prayed it not for nine days but for nine days several times over. After praying it with my whole heart, I realized that living for God's Will was true freedom. I didn't have to plan my life years in advance or feel the weight of making decisions on my own, because the God who watches every sparrow would watch over me. I began to focus more on living each and every day as a gift, as a chance to grow closer to God and love Him, and love those around me for his sake. Simple things like getting up on time or doing someone else's dishes became works of love rather than mundane chores. I was better able to communicate with friends and family, even those I had found irritating or disagreed with. Sadly, too many teenagers think of their faith as something they "outgrow", something they learn as kids but don't need for the real world. That could not be more untrue. Without the strength of faith, I would not be able to face the real world with patience, kindness, and compassion. Surrendering your life to Jesus is a hard decision at first, and takes a lifetime to complete. But it is only through the struggle that we can find peace, knowing that we are participating fully in a plan that will do infinitely more good for us than we could conjure up on our own. St. Paul understood this: "It is not I who live, but Christ who lives in me." This is the plan for every one of us, to become like Christ. This earth has many distractions and discouragements, but if you truly believe with your whole heart that God put you here, in this place, at this moment, for a reason, you will not be disappointed. God's plan is not always like our plan. It is better than that. As my patron saint, Catherine of Siena, once said, "Be exactly who God meant you to be, and you will set the world on fire."

I couldn't believe it. All that practicing, and I'd done it again. What was wrong with me? I had just walked out of the Hahn Recital Hall at Ball State University. I was attending their summer chamber music camp and had just auditioned for the concerto competition. The judges were members of the Cincinnati Symphony and had attended prestigious music schools like Julliard and Curtis. I had been playing violin for almost twelve years, and done my share of auditions, concerts, and competitions. But lately, I had been losing again and again. It seemed the more I cared, the harder it got to succeed. I knew the piece by heart, but no matter what I tried, my nerves always got in the way of my expression and joy. I finished every performance furious with myself. This time had been no different. I was sure I hadn't won, and I didn't think I came remotely close to sounding my best. So when I walked back into the room to thank the judges after they announced another student as the winner, I was shocked to see them smiling. They shook hands with me and told me how glad they had been to hear my beautiful performance, and encouraged me to keep working. Needless to say, I was confused. I hadn't won, and yet the concertmaster of the Cincinnati Symphony was telling me I played beautifully? The rest of that day and the next, I was still too upset to think about it much. But as the week came to a close and I went back home, I took the judges' words to heart. I practiced more than ever in the next six months and surprised myself with the progress I made. It was hard work, but my youth orchestra concerto competition was coming up in January and I wasn't going to miss it. Over the next few months, I finally realized what the judges meant. A competition here and there didn't define how well I played, or how much I could grow. Sure, someone else played better than I, but in my few moments on stage, I had managed to connect with my audience, to touch their hearts and make them smile. My own fears and self-doubts were getting in the way of what the music could really do. My nerves weren't the problem—the attention I gave them was the problem. I approached my youth orchestra audition with a completely new mindset. I won, but only because I had finally learned what it meant to perform in the first place. One of my violin teacher's favorite sayings is "The only violinist you ever compete with is yourself one minute before." I spent years competing with other people, valuing my progress by theirs. But when I stopped doing that, I finally had the confidence and courage to try new opportunities that would never have been possible. Without my failures, I might never have fully discovered the true beauty of my art.

First of all, let me say one thing: I would not have gotten anywhere if it were not for all the people around me. It is difficult to choose simply one role model, because throughout my life, each year, each experience, in every moment, various people have come forward to push me on. A parent, a sibling, a priest, or maybe just a phrase I read in a book. I can't count how many times I have silently thanked some author who lived a hundred years ago for feeling just what I feel, and writing exactly what I needed to hear. Many of the people mentioned above are probably not even aware of how they quietly, steadily, and unassumingly changed my life. Music, specifically violin-playing, is very important to me. It is not just how I express myself, but also how I help others to find more beauty and joy in their lives. But despite how much I love it and how important I think it is, it has hardly ever been easy. This is due mainly to two things: the unavoidable difficulty of the work, and my own ego. I've had a lot of intelligent teachers work on both of these with me over the years, but the man who helped the most is someone I've never even met. Bernard Casey was born into a simple family in Wisconsin in 1870. He never got much of an education as a child because he had to earn money for his family. These jobs included working as a lumberjack, a prison guard, and a streetcar operator. During this last job, he witnessed a violent murder. He was so affected by the experience that he decided to become a priest so that he could work constantly for peace and forgiveness. When he joined the Capuchins, he took the name Solanus, after St. Francis Solano who loved the violin. Fr. Casey also played violin, but not so he could become famous or successful. He simply played to thank God for His blessings and to bring a little joy into the lives of those around him. Due to his lack of education, Solanus did the most menial tasks around the monastery, things as simple as greeting guests at the door. But he did everything with such an aura of love and compassion that people started coming to the monastery just to see him. No matter what someone was suffering from, he always had ready a bowl of soup, a word of encouragement, or a prayer. Many miraculous healings have been attributed to his prayer and faith. So what does this humble friar have to do with my life, and why is he my role model? When I perform on violin, I struggle constantly with self-doubt and fear of failure. Worse, I worry over how I can find fulfillment in my life if I can't succeed at what I think is important. This attitude led me to a long series of failures that became a vicious cycle. When I learned about Blessed Solanus Casey, all that began to change. He loved playing violin as much as I do, even though according to his friends he wasn't very good. But he didn't do it to be the best, he did it out of love. I realized that the only way my music-making can make a difference in the world, the only way any of my practicing and auditioning and performing can matter, is if I do it for others. So I changed my behavior to match my new conviction. I began advertising for students, and now, about a dozen children come to see me every week. They come to learn violin or piano, and I make a point of greeting each child with love and compassion, just as Solanus Casey did. It may not seem like much, but I truly believe that music education not only trains the mind but also the soul. My own playing has also benefited from this mindset because I can play with more feeling and true enjoyment (rather than ego) for what I do. This has opened up incredible opportunities for me that would not have been possible when I lived in negativity. Again, I'm grateful for all the people in my life who, knowingly or unknowingly, have helped me discover my mission and purpose. But I will always be especially thankful for the simple, loving monk through doing God's will in his life inspired me to do so in mine.