One morning at school assembly, they announced that two boys were going to play the piano. I was shocked to see that one of them was my very good friend from class—I had no idea he could play. He sat down and played Chariots of Fire. I was spellbound.

As soon as assembly ended, I asked him how he had learned. He told me there was a new music teacher at school who gave piano lessons in the afternoons. Needless to say, that very same afternoon I went for my first lesson.

I didn’t have my own instrument growing up. But that didn’t stop me. During school holidays, I went back to my former junior school to practice. I would spend entire days at the piano—so long that the caretakers knew me by name and often had to tell me to go home because it was time to lock up.

When I couldn’t get to a real instrument, I drew a paper keyboard and practiced melodies on it. Oddly enough, that strengthened the connection between my fingers, ears, and the music itself.

Another unusual part of my story: I never used the word practice. No one told me to sit down and rehearse scales. Instead, I spent hours “figuring things out”—chords, licks, substitutions, sounds. To me, it wasn’t work; it was discovery.

That mindset still shapes how I teach today. I don’t believe music should feel like a chore. It should feel like curiosity, creativity, and joy.

From the age of six, I was captivated by instruments, the joy on musicians’ faces, and the way their music lifted the whole room. My sisters still tell the story of when I was seven and joined the school percussion band—even wearing a girls’ uniform because the boys’ had run out. I wore that dress proudly for a whole year, just for the chance to play music.

That same passion carried into high school and beyond. Music wasn’t something I did—it was who I was.