I Stopped Posting. I Didn’t Stop Playing.
What I asked myself to do last year was, on reflection, slightly ridiculous..
Every single day, I chose an instrument. that I could play - choosing from the following: piano, clarinet, cello, recorder (descant and treble). Found a piece of music. Checked it out. Worked out the structure - beginning, middle, end. Played it through as best I could. And then uploaded it onto Instagram.
Every. Single. Day.
Most people don’t do that.
They might do ten days. Possibly thirty.
Then life intervenes.
I did it for a year. A whole year.
And what’s strange is that I didn’t fully understand what I was building until it stopped.
On New Year’s Day, I performed and posted my final performance in the morning. That felt normal. Familiar. When I’d been travelling before, I’d pre-recorded things, so the timing didn’t impact me in any negative way.
But on the second of January, something unexpected happened.
It got to that time of day - the time when my brain usually kicks in and says, “Right. What are you going to play?”
And then I remembered: I don’t need to.
Except… I still did.
That’s when I realised, I hadn’t just been completing a challenge.
I’d rewired something.
The habit hadn’t gone anywhere. The posting had ended - but the practice hadn’t.
And here’s the important shift: I’m practising differently now.
During the challenge, the focus was momentum. Exposure. Repetition. Getting from the beginning to the end of something - even if it wasn’t pretty.
Especially if it wasn’t pretty.
Now, I’m staying.
I’m learning one piece over weeks. Paying attention to dynamics. Phrasing. Technique.
I’m sitting with the difficult parts instead of moving past them.
And that difference matters.
Playing something new every day teaches you to begin.
Practising the same thing teaches you how to remain.
One builds courage. The other builds patience.
One helps you overcome hesitation. The other teaches you what happens after enthusiasm fades.
I didn’t fully appreciate this until the pressure of having to post disappeared.
Without that external demand, what I’m left with is choice.
And that’s made me rethink time.
Because somewhere along the way, I’ve also realised two things I didn’t believe before:
A year is a long time.
And so is a day.
I used to say I didn’t have enough time. Now I know I do.
Not in a motivational way. In a very ordinary, human way.
I can work. Do the washing. Walk the dog. And still stop - somewhere between five and seven - and practise.
Not rush.
Not perform.
Just practise.
And maybe that’s the biggest thing this year has given me.
A different relationship with time.
A slower relationship with learning.
And a deeper understanding that staying with something quietly - long after the novelty has gone - is where the real work happens.
The challenge is over.
But the practice isn’t.
And I’m starting to see that that was the point all along.
(c) Audrey Pantelis 2026
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