The Boy Who Watched From the Seats

By Clare

One of my students stepped onto the stage of the Chan Centre to perform with the Vancouver Chamber Orchestra—a moment that felt like the quiet closing of a circle.

Back before the pandemic, I had five students perform in that very same concert series, on that same luminous stage. In the audience that year sat a newly joined 10-year-old boy—shy, wide-eyed, barely saying more than two words per lesson. He watched those older students play with the orchestra, and somewhere in that hushed hall, he planted a quiet wish: *One day, that will be me.*

Fast forward to now—and when the invitation came, he didn’t hesitate for a second. “Yes,” he said simply. (Still not one for long speeches—but this time, the certainty in his voice said everything.)

He’s always been a fascinating learner: deeply introverted, sparing with words, yet endlessly curious. For the first two years, most of his answers to my questions hovered around “yes,” “no,” or just a nod 😂. Then, in his third year, something shifted. One day, out of the blue, he described his school to me—in vivid detail—for a full three minutes. I remember thinking: *This is a milestone.*

What’s always struck me, though, is how someone so reserved could be so drawn to challenge. His piano journey hasn’t followed a straight path. Just a year after joining my studio, he moved back to his home country to continue his schooling, with plans to return later. Then the pandemic happened—and what was meant to be a short break turned into years of online lessons.

Through it all—through demanding schoolwork, time-zone juggling, and the fatigue we all felt—he never once considered stopping piano. Not once.

So when he finally stood onstage with the orchestra, the contrast was striking: the same quiet boy who once spoke in whispers delivered a performance rich with personality, colour, and unexpected emotional depth. I’ve heard him play many times—but never like this. It was as if all those years of listening, practicing in solitude, and holding onto that childhood dream had poured into those few minutes.

Afterward, he couldn’t stop smiling—a bright, unguarded grin I’d never seen before. “That was so much fun!” he kept saying. And just like that, he’s already looking ahead: “Now I really want to do a solo recital!”

That’s the magic of experience. It doesn’t just build skill—it unlocks parts of us we didn’t know were waiting.

Huge congratulations to this remarkable young musician on reaching a milestone he’s carried in his heart since he was ten. I’m so proud of you—and so grateful to his mom, whose unwavering support, weekly 100+ km drives (yes, every week! 😂), and deep respect for his musical journey made moments like this possible.

Here’s to seeds that take time to grow—and to the patience that lets them bloom.

👏🎹🌱