Unplayed Keys & Unused Ribbon
My unscathed ballet shoes hang in my closet near the piano I cannot play. The two form a strange kind of regret. The lingering wonder of my unexplored possibilities stings more than the fear of making poor choices. Now, as a senior in high school, I find myself glimpsing what could have been in unexpected places. I’m enamored with the romantic melodies that street artists play and I press my fingers against store windows where delicately shimmering leotards catch the light. Past and present unite as a moment of wonder.
Thirteen years ago, elegant pastel pink tutus, perfectly tied blonde buns, and a charmed crowd felt more like bleeding bunions, crunchy hair, and money down the drain. Simply put, ballet didn’t amuse six-year-old Stefania. When my parents offered to enroll me in ballet, I, without even considering it, said no. Why would I dance for anyone? That defiant question follows me, carrying the weight of all the choices we make before we understand what that choice truly means.
The piano patiently waiting in my living room tells a similar story, though her silence says more. Her keys, like old memories, gather dust and long for touch. Yet, she remains put, untouched since my older sister graduated ten years ago. My dad was convinced one of his other daughters would befriend her, becoming fluent in her black and white keys. Initially, her baby pink costume attracted me; but soon enough, clipping my fingernails to the flesh, having to wake up at 8 am to take classes, and my teacher assigning me homework dispirited me. I was indifferent to the piano’s music.
Looking back now, I realize how many of my choices weren’t truly mine, but rather dictated by a child’s whims. At six, saying “no” was me exercising the minimal power I had; rejecting ballet, piano, or the plethora of other opportunities it was given was an act of asserting my identity. I didn’t want to wake up early, deal with discomfort, or make any sort of sacrifice. But those choices, made in moments of childish oblivion, have grown into more. They’ve become lessons in regret and patience with myself, teaching me to question my initial resistance.
At times, I trace my fingers across the piano’s dusty frame and think of Jean-Paul Sartre's philosophy of choice—how even our refusals shape us, how saying ‘no’ is its own form of ‘yes’ to something else. “I can always choose,” he wrote, “but I ought to know that if I do not choose, I am still choosing” (Sartre 1957). Perhaps my childhood resistance wasn’t just rebellion, but an unconscious formation of myself. Even as I turned away from music and dance, I was shaping my future—forming a different melody.
This realization made me approach current decisions with a greater weight: will I think the same thing in 10 years about the decisions I made for college? Will I look back and wish I had chosen a different path, one I pushed aside too quickly? Careers, marriage, children—these questions loom in my mind.
I’ve come to learn that choice is not static, nor is the person it shapes. Next semester, I’m clipping my fingernails, setting alarms, and committing myself to practice the piano with lessons. My objective is not to reclaim some lost childhood potential but to understand how choice can move in both ways—saying ‘no’ at six doesn’t mean saying ‘no’ forever. While I’ve accepted that it may be too late to become a ballerina—and that truthfully, I wouldn’t be a good one—I find solace in knowing that my path is never straight or predictable.
My choices, both the ones I make and the ones I don’t, continue to shape who I am becoming like keys on a piano creating a melody. In the end, maybe it’s not the unplayed keys or unused ribbons that matter most, but instead, the value gained in understanding how every choice, refusal, and moment of saying ‘yes’ or ‘no’ has brought me to this current moment of still choosing and still becoming.
References
Sartre, Jean-Paul. Existentialism and Human Emotions. Citadel Press, 1957.