Trumpet. Trombone. Tuba. French horn. That extra word French stood out to me when I chose the French horn in third grade. French toast and French fries were good, so why not take a chance on the French horn? I didn’t care too much about the actual instrument, and the band teachers didn’t care either; they were just happy to have a French horn in the ensemble. I thought the concept of practicing the French horn at home was a joke, and my mistakes were dismissed because of how easy it is to miss notes on the horn. Towards the end of eighth grade, at the behest of my parents, I began taking French horn lessons. During my first meeting with my horn teacher, she asked me to play any piece that I worked on in school. I proceeded to play and missed nearly every note; it was an embarrassment. That lesson nearly brought me to tears because I realized that those first five years of playing the horn were wasted. In fact, those five years developed and cemented my terrible technique of playing the horn. Despite this realization, along with my new French horn lessons, the stubborn, naïve kid in me refused to practice. 

The subsequent summer before ninth grade, I was diagnosed with Crohn’s Disease. To make matters worse, Hurricane Sandy ravaged my town a few months after the diagnosis. Suddenly and without warning, I was in the dark. No videogames, no TV, no computer, and an hour after the power outage, no charge on my smart phone. That week I specifically remember being forced to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night because of my Crohn’s. I carried a lantern just so I could navigate through the darkness. That moment, lantern in one hand toilet paper in the other, as I shivered because of the freezing cold toilet seat, changed me. I realized I hit rock bottom. Without electricity, my life was miserable. There had to be something that could get me out of my rut, something that didn’t rely on electricity. I looked towards my French horn, resting in its case as it usually is, took it out, and began to practice. All it took was an hour a day, but in return I was given the strength to persevere. With the help of my French horn, I made it through that week, and a passion was ignited. I began practicing my French horn daily, as if I owed it to the horn after what it did for me. Instead of hearing cracked notes, I heard an amazing sound which made every minute spent on the horn worth it, and all my mistakes fixable.

In January of my freshman year, I was encouraged by my French horn teacher to audition for the New Jersey Junior Region Band; I made it in. So I kept going, and in my junior year I was accepted into the highly acclaimed New Jersey All-State Orchestra. Just three years ago I could barely get a note out of my instrument and now I was invited to play in an elite orchestra in New Jersey. It took me at my lowest point in my life to realize that a neglected instrument could rejuvenate me. Now, I’m able to proudly say I play the French horn for more than its name. I play the French horn because its sound is beautiful. And, I play the French horn because no matter what life decides to throw my way, I know that the horn will be there, waiting in its case to be played and to let me know that there are better days ahead and I will reach those better days.