Are you hijacking yourself?

When I was in seventh grade, a band teacher broke my heart.

It started at the beginning of the school year. On the first day of class, our director handed out shiny new music books. Each cover featured a shiny medal that was emblazoned with musical images. My memory is fuzzy, so I can't remember if they were notes or instruments. Probably both.

Anyway, as he distributed the books, the teacher laid out his vision for the year. These books were a course of study, designed to improve our instrumental proficiency. By practicing and then testing sequences laid out in the books, we could demonstrate our growth and develop our burgeoning skills.

The best part: if we completed the book within the school year, our director promised that he would acquire and present us with the medal displayed on the cover.

I'm not sure if I've ever wanted anything more than I wanted that medal. Well, that might be a bit of an exaggeration. But I'd certainly never wanted anything that badly before. So I set to and devoted myself to the rigors of daily practice.

As the year went on, I routinely demonstrated my prowess to our instructor. He would listen to my performances after class and then sign off on my work, freeing me to move on to the next series of sequences. I beamed with pride as I bustled my way steadily through the book. By year's end, my bike rides to and from school were filled with daydreams of the promised medal ceremony.

I hadn't received many awards for mastery in my young life. My closet shelf was full of hockey trophies, but they were mere participation statuettes. Moreover, the two individual medals that I'd earned were for "Most Improved Player," which seemed like just another way of saying, "Well, you don't suck as much as you did when you started!" So you can imagine how excited I was at this prospect of recognition.

The thing is, I never got that medal. The final band rehearsal came and went. The year-end awards night, too. And because I was a timid twelve-year-old, I didn't muster up the courage to ask why.

I was reminded of this story last night and shared it with my daughter this morning. She's been reckoning with her feelings about going award-less on year-end awards day at her school. I thought my story might be pertinent.

She immediately felt sorry for me: "You deserved that medal!" I appreciated the sympathy, but that wasn't my point. So I tried to explain myself.

In recent months I've been discovering that many of my goals are hijacked by "other people." And by "hijacked," I mean that I hijack myself, directing my energy into things that I "should" want or "should" be doing. The result? I disappear. My gifts get obscured. My courage withers.

And that's sad, because some beautiful things get hidden.

I don't regret any of the time I spent in pursuit of that medal. Truth be told, if that medal had been for anything else, I probably wouldn't have cared enough to complete the book. What really drove me was my love of music. The medal simply revealed that love and gave me a reason to pour myself out for something that mattered to me.

I'd say that lesson is worth more than any medal.