I’m learning to play the piano at 17.

I’m not very good. I take lessons right after a 6-year-old, so heading into the little classroom after her and having to move the stool backwards to make the correct amount of space – it’s pretty humbling. 

My issue with the instrument is that I want to be good now. And that means with maybe 15 minutes of practice a day and a weekly lesson, I expected myself to be somewhere further along in progress than I am currently.

It’s a problem of mine and always has been: my hard time understanding that I cannot be the best at everything I do – not immediately, at least, and not without any effort. That’s not to say that I am typically the best at things, or have been for any activity I have done (I was pretty terrible at soccer and never picked up my violin outside my weekly lessons). Yet for some reason, I have this pressing, deep desire to be the best at something effortlessly.

I envy those who are actually effortless, like the guy in my art history class whose essay is 12 times better than mine despite never having read the content and the girl in my calculus class who comes to every lesson unprepared yet is explaining the concept to me before the class is over. 

I was named the sports editor of The Sidekick through an odd series of events involving a friendly editor and my intense desire to please her. I had applied for it but was secretly hoping to be put in another spot. Yet when I was given the position, despite knowing how hard-won the spot was and how thrilled I should have been, I was worried – or maybe angry. I don’t know sports, barring my family’s beloved tennis and a child’s rec soccer knowledge, and looking retrospectively, maybe that was why. My editor position became another thing that wouldn’t come effortlessly. 

Writing was something that always had been rather effortless, purely handed to me from my being an avid reader. I was good at The Sidekick, in a way that felt effortless to me: the writing aspect. But sports was not. The first soccer match I ever covered was a flop – one that ended with me in tears – and though I improved, it couldn’t help but look like a foreshadowing of the upcoming year. 

But the program had been my life, and I couldn’t imagine leaving writing behind, even if it did mean another thing that came with difficulty to me. 

So I stayed. 

It didn’t come effortlessly, not in the least. I learned who to interview, how 10 different sports worked and how to teach something I had just barely grasped myself. It meant hours of coverage and more work than I had ever imagined myself being able to do. 

No, it certainly wasn’t effortless. And what mattered was that I wasn’t expecting it to be. Not as I had with every other activity I had quit.

I’m learning piano now, at 17, and I go in after a 6-year-old. She’s much better than me. 

I’m learning piano now, at 17, and I show up every week and practice every day. I’m not expecting it to be effortless. And when everything comes together just right – the pedal, the rhythm, the messy downbeat –  it’s so much more satisfying than if it would have come with ease.

Follow Anjali (@anjalikrishna_) and @CHSCampusNews on Twitter.