The Late Arrival
Let’s go back. When I was six years old, my mother took me to one of the top music conservatoires in London to take a piano exam — a real treat. I used to get all dressed up in a posh frock and make such a day of it. If I was really lucky, I’d even leave with a treble clef pencil from the gift shop.
I remember clearly standing at the stewards’ desk when my mum turned to me and said, “You’ll go somewhere like this one day.” I worked hard from then on and achieved Grade 8s in three instruments. Of course I was going to music college — there was no other option. It felt inevitable. Classical guitar was my preferred instrument by that point, and it seemed the natural choice to audition on. Auditions came, the results were in, and I didn’t get a single offer.
There is an irony I only recognised much later. During the same period I was repeatedly rejected by classical institutions, I was accepted into one of the world’s most well-known performing arts schools — the BRIT School. At the time, I didn’t know how to hold that contradiction. Looking back, it’s clear I was already inside the world of making and performing; I just wasn’t doing it on classical music’s preferred terms.
Home was its own challenging terrain: one parent struggling with alcoholism, the other having left the family unit a few years prior. I fell into a prolonged exploitative situation that lasted two years and developed an eating disorder. Life happened, but music remained my constant companion.
In the classical industry, it’s common etiquette to be asked “Where did you study?” and, more annoyingly, “Who with?” Often, the people asking haven’t studied music themselves, so whatever answer they receive becomes a shorthand for value. For a long time, I learnt to brace myself for the quiet disappointment when my response didn’t meet expectations — or, perhaps more accurately, my own.
That changed when I turned twenty-eight and life shifted dramatically. My father died. I was married, then divorced. And something became very clear. I needed to follow the music at all costs.
Well, it only took me 24 years, but I got there eventually. Fast forward to 2024, and I finally walk through the doors of Trinity Laban at the age of 32. It feels familiar almost immediately — not because the institution is flawless, but because I arrive without the need to compete or prove myself. Meandering through the corridors, hearing incredible music, I realise I’m not bracing myself for comparison. I’m simply doing the work.
There’s a common saying that ‘rejection is just redirection’. For a long time, I misunderstood this, assuming it meant the destination itself would change. I’ve come to realise it’s not about redirecting the destination at all, but about taking a different route — often a more demanding one. I finally went to music college, just not in the way I ever expected. Looking back, I’m grateful for the diversions, the twists, and the uneven ground along the way.
Arriving later has changed how I engage with studying. I don’t experience it as a proving ground, but as a place to work. I can now sit in classes and understand what it means to play music, not just execute it. Had I entered at eighteen, I might not even be playing the piano today.
The classical industry still places significant weight on institutional affiliation, often treating attendance as a shorthand for legitimacy. These places do important work, but they do not create artists. At best, they provide conditions in which something can grow; at worst, they narrow expression in pursuit of uniform excellence. Technical polish is often rewarded more readily than understanding, and it’s possible to emerge highly trained but under-articulated.
Music — or any art, for that matter — is born out of real life. I’ve had a mix of happy and painful experiences, but I can safely say I am living. The reason I play is simply a natural result.
