07/19/2025
I once heard a story about a piano that was never played.
A young couple bought it when their daughters were little.
They imagined music drifting through the house, recitals in the living room,
tiny fingers learning to play “Clair de Lune.”
They weren’t musicians, but that didn’t matter.
The piano was part of the vision.
A house full of culture. A family with depth.
They told themselves, “This is who we’re going to be.”
For a while, it felt true.
The girls took lessons. Practiced a little.
Then came school, dance, friends, schedules.
Weeks turned into months, then years. The piano sat untouched.
It became more decoration than instrument.
Still, they kept it.
Because letting it go felt like admitting they’d become a different kind of family than the one they had pictured.
And that’s not an easy thing to admit.
One day, while vacuuming, the mom brushed against the keys.
The sound startled her.
She stood there a long time, staring at something that had once held so much hope.
That night, she turned to her husband and said,
“I think it’s time.”
They sold the piano the following weekend.
Used the money to buy bikes.
Simple, secondhand, just enough for the four of them.
That summer, they rode more than ever—
to the farmers market, to the park,
sometimes just to be together without needing a reason.
And slowly, they stopped feeling sad about the family they didn’t become.
Because they started to fall in love with the family they actually were.
It’s a hard thing—letting go of the version of yourself you thought you should be.
But sometimes that’s exactly what makes space
to walk more freely in the person you really are.
