My wife was determined that our young son learn the guitar, and his teacher was a 25-year-old man. One day, when my wife was too sick to drive him, I took him instead. On the way, he started crying, and I told him he didn’t have to go if he didn’t want to. Later, curiosity—and a desire to understand—led me to visit the teacher at his home.
I was astonished. His yard was alive with guitars, music stands, and tiny chairs, filled with children joyfully learning instruments. The young teacher greeted me warmly, holding a handmade sticker chart decorated with stars and encouraging notes. It was clear that teaching music to kids wasn’t just a job—it was his passion.
Inside, he showed me videos of my son practicing, hesitant at first, slowly learning to strum a few chords. “He’s talented,” the teacher said. “He just needs confidence. Every child learns at their own pace.” His gentle approach surprised me; I had expected a strict, impatient tutor, but instead I found someone deeply committed to nurturing my son’s confidence and love of music.
He shared something personal, too: he had once been a shy, insecure child himself. “Music saved me,” he explained. “It gave me a voice without words. I want to pass that gift on to other children.” Suddenly, the patience, the encouragement, the careful way he guided my son all made sense. My son’s tears weren’t from fear—they were from trying hard and wanting to do well.
When we returned home, I hugged my son and reassured him that perfection wasn’t necessary—what mattered was enjoying the process. His face lit up, and the following week he eagerly asked me to take him to class again. Watching him play with a smile, I realized that children sometimes cry not because something is wrong, but because they are growing, learning, and discovering courage. From that day on, music became more than just sound in our home—it became a symbol of love, patience, and pride.