What the Piano (and Running) Taught Me About Character

When an audience watches a professional pianist, they are witnessing a finished product - a seamless flow of emotion and technical precision. They see the "joy" and the "art," but they rarely see the architecture that holds it up. To achieve a high level on any instrument is to engage in a decades-long conversation with discipline, a process defined by what I call "consistent deposits." (As a runner too, this is my go-to phrase whenever someone asks what my key to success is.)

But back to the growth analogy - in the beginning, learning is a series of leaps. You learn a scale, a chord, a simple melody; the progress is visible and intoxicating. But as you climb toward mastery, the mountain becomes steeper and the handholds smaller. The irony of high-level skill is that as you get better, the visible growth becomes incremental. You might spend weeks refining the pressure of a single finger or the resonance of a specific pedal lift. It becomes harder to break through, yet this is exactly where character is forged.

This journey requires a specific kind of accountability. It’s the choice to sit at the bench when the world is binge-watching a new show or sleeping in. It isn't that those other activities are "wrong," but that mastery demands a different currency: time.

However, this "solitary" craft is never truly solitary. To play at this level is to carry the weight of others' sacrifices. I think of the money my parents poured into lessons and the hours they dedicated to my growth. I think of the teachers who pushed me. When I perform, I am a steward of their investment. This realization brings a profound sense of humility. If I don't give my best, I haven't just let myself down - I’ve let down the people who paved the road for me.

There is a "social tax" to this life. People often criticize what they don't understand, viewing your unavailability as a slight rather than a dedication. But the right people—those who understand the ebb and flow of a calling—don’t see your focus as a cold shoulder. They see it as the price of a light that you eventually share with the world through teaching, DJing, or performing. Ultimately, the piano didn't just teach me music; it built the person I am today.

What does a man hanging off Taipei 101 have in common with a musician sitting at a Steinway or a runner crossing the hundredth mile of a desert race? On the surface, nothing. But in the realm of character, they are identical.

Whether it is Alex Honnold free-soloing Taiwan's building or a pianist navigating a complex concerto, the "impossible" is only achieved through the same fundamental mechanism: the daily deposit. We live in a culture that loves to "chop down" high achievers, scratching its head and asking, "What is the point?" People see the risk of the climber or the grueling training of the ultra-runner and mistake it for madness. They don't see the satisfaction of recalibration - the art form of admitting, "I need to stop this race, reflect, and try again."

The common thread is Accountability. The climber is accountable to the rock; the runner to the trail; the musician to the score. None of them are "average" because they have refused the path of least resistance. They understand that to achieve something for the betterment of society - to inspire others and show them what is possible after decades of work - requires a selfless kind of grit.

It is a selfless act because, while the work is done in private, the result is a gift to the public. When Honnold reaches the top, or when I share music with my students, or cross the line of a long-distance race, we are offering a glimpse of human potential. We are saying, "This is what happens when you don't let the world put out your light."

The "point" of doing something so difficult isn't the feat itself. The point is the transformation of the person doing it. Whether you are wearing climbing shoes or sitting at a piano bench, you are building a character that is immovable, out of a deep-seated gratitude for the ability to strive. We are all humans recalibrating, and as long as we keep making those deposits, the "impossible" remains within our reach.