A few weeks ago I found myself in a car with my niece, Yasmine, during a college visit with her sister. We had time, we had miles, and she wasn’t going anywhere. My father used to tell my mother that if she needed to have a real conversation with one of us kids, she should get us in the car. Captive audience. No exits. She could talk as long as she needed to.
I don’t think I planned it that way. But there I was.
Yasmine is a talented musician — or at least she has the potential to be. She started on piano, picked it up by ear, and has since dabbled in violin, guitar, and drums. There’s something natural there. But at 15, natural only takes you so far.
Which makes what she said next both familiar and a little frustrating.
So somewhere between exits I asked her about it. How much she was practicing. What she was working toward.
Nothing. Not “not much.” Not “I’ve been busy.” Just silence.
And then the violin — she didn’t have her own, so practicing during the summer wasn’t really possible.
I heard the excuse clearly. And I also heard what the silence before it meant.
Someone who has picked up multiple instruments by ear doesn’t need perfect conditions to practice. She could practice on anything. The violin wasn’t the obstacle. The obstacle was deciding whether she was going to do the work.
I told her that if she committed to 30 to 60 minutes of practice a day, she would have her own violin. Because her mother would find a way to make it happen. And if she didn’t, I would. But first she had to show up for it.
She’s getting by on natural ability right now. And I recognized that immediately — not because I was observing her from a distance, but because I was looking at myself.
When I was in school I could pass or get A’s by showing up and paying attention. That was it. I never had to work particularly hard, never had to push through something difficult, never had to find out what happened when natural ability wasn’t enough. It just… worked.
It never occurred to me how hard other people had to work until college, when I finally ran into resistance. When showing up wasn’t enough anymore and I actually had to put something in. That was the first time I had to reckon with the difference between talent and effort — and realize I didn’t have much practice with the second one.
Yasmine is living a version of that story right now. Getting by without the work. And the risk isn’t that she’ll fail — it’s that she’ll never find out what she’s actually capable of.
My father said a lot of things that stayed with me. One of them came back during that car ride.
“The only way that someone knows that you tried is if you do it.”
I don’t remember exactly when he said it. But I remember what it did to me when I heard it. It wasn’t a challenge. It wasn’t a pep talk. It was just an expectation, stated plainly. We don’t make excuses in this family. You either do the thing or you don’t. And if you don’t, there’s nothing to point to. No evidence. No proof. The attempt that never happened leaves nothing behind.
I took it literally — and I think that’s how he meant it. Completion is the only thing that counts. Intention is invisible. A talent never developed, a violin never practiced — none of it exists until you do something with it.
I don’t know what my niece took away from that car ride. Maybe nothing landed. Maybe some of it did and she’ll think about it later. Maybe she’ll pick up the violin this summer and maybe she won’t.
But I know what it gave me.
A conversation I thought I was having with her turned out to be one I was having with myself. About finishing what you start. About not letting an excuse become the story. About what it means to actually do your best when your best has never been pushed.
My father wasn’t in that car. But somehow he was driving.
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