“Can you try skipping to the middle of the piece that you’re struggling with?” she asks.

I physically recoil at the suggestion. “I have to start at the beginning. That’s just what you do. If the song was meant to be played from the middle, that part would be at the beginning.”

“I understand, but this might help you get past your mental block,” she points out.

All I can do is shake my head, even though inside I’m wincing. I know I’m not acting the way she wants, and that feels wrong.

She sighs. “Doing the same thing over and over hasn’t solved the problem, so maybe it’s time to try something different.”

“But I can’t skip the beginning. If I can’t get it right, then I don’t deserve to play the next part, and I don’t deserve to play the ending,” I say, conviction in every word.

“What is this about deserving? It’s a song. It’s meant to be played in whatever order you want. It doesn’t judge you.”

“But people will,” I whisper.

And there it is. We always come to this one sticking point. I look down at my hands and find my fingers white-knuckled together like I’m pushing myself down and holding myself up at the same time.

“You’re an artist, and art is subjective,” Jennifer says. “You have to learn to stop listening to what people say.”

“I know.”

“How were you able to play before? What was your mindset then?” she asks, and by “before” I know she means before I accidentally became Internet famous and my career took off and I went on an international tour and got a record deal and modern composer Max Richter wrote a piece just for me, an honor like nothing else in the whole world.

Every time I try to play that piece as well as it deserves—as well as everyone expects me to, because I’m some kind of musical prodigy now, even though I was only considered adequate in the past—every time, I fail.

“Before, I played just because I loved it,” I say finally. “No one cared about me. No one even knew I existed. Other than my family and boyfriend and coworkers and such. And I was fine with that. I liked that. Now … people have expectations, and I can’t stand knowing that I might disappoint them.”

“You will disappoint people,” Jennifer says in a firm but not unkind voice. “But you’ll also blow others away. That’s just how this works.”

“I know,” I say. And I really do understand, logically. But emotionally, it’s another matter. I’m terrified that if I slip, if I fail, everyone will stop loving me, and where will I be then?

“I think you’ve forgotten why you play,” she says gently. “Or more precisely, who you play for.”

I take and release a deep breath and unclasp my hands to give my stiff fingers a break. “You’re right. I haven’t played for my own enjoyment in a long time. I’ll try to do that,” I say, offering her an optimistic smile. In my heart, however, I know what will happen when I try. I will get lost playing in loops. Because nothing is good enough now. No, “good enough” isn’t right. I must be more than “good enough.” I must be dazzling. I wish I knew how to dazzle at will.

For a second, it looks like she’s going to say something, but she ends up touching a finger to her chin instead as she tilts her head to the side, looking at me from a new angle. “Why do you do that?” She points to her own eyes. “That thing with your eyes?”

My face blanches. I can feel my skin flashing hot and then going cold and stiff as all expression melts away. “What thing?”

“The eye wrinkling,” she says.

I’ve been caught.

I don’t know how I should react. This hasn’t happened to me before. I wish I could melt into the floor or squeeze myself into one of her cupboards and hold the door shut. “Smiles are real when they reach your eyes. Books say so,” I admit.

“Are there lots of things that you do like that, things that you read about in books or have seen other people do so you copy them?” she asks.

I swallow uncomfortably. “Maybe.”

Her expression turns thoughtful, and she scribbles something down on her notepad. I try to see what she’s written without looking like I’m peeking, but I can’t make anything out.

“Why does it matter?” I ask.

She considers me for a moment before saying, “It’s a form of masking.”

“What’s masking?”

Speaking haltingly, like she’s choosing her words, she says, “It’s when someone takes on mannerisms that aren’t natural to them so they can better fit in with society. Does that resonate with you?”

“Is it bad if it does?” I ask, unable to keep the uneasiness from my voice. I don’t like where this is going.

“It’s not good or bad. It’s just the way things are. I’ll be able to help you better if I have a clearer understanding of how your mind works.” She pauses then and sets her pen down before forging ahead to say, “A lot of the time, I believe you tell me things just because you think that’s what I want to hear. I hope you can see how counterproductive that would be in therapy.”

My desire to crawl into her cupboard intensifies. I used to hide in tight places like that when I was little. I only stopped because my parents kept finding me and dragging me out to whatever chaotic event they had going on: parties, big dinners with our enormous extended family, school concerts, things that required me to wear itchy tights and a scratchy dress and sit still in silent suffering.

Jennifer sets her notepad aside and crosses her hands in her lap. “Our time is up, but for this next week, I’d like you to try something new.”

“Skipping to the middle and playing something fun,” I say. I always remember her to-do items, even when I know I won’t actually do them.

“Those would be great things to do if you could,” she says with an earnest smile. “But there’s something else.” Leaning forward and watching me intently, she adds, “I’d like you to watch what you’re doing and saying, and if it’s something that doesn’t feel right and true to who you are, if it’s something that exhausts you or makes you unhappy, take a look at why you’re doing it. And if there isn’t a good reason … try not doing it.”

“What’s the point of this?” It feels like going backward, and it doesn’t have anything to do with my music, which is all I care about.

“Do you think there’s a chance that maybe your masking has spread to your violin playing?” she asks.

I open my mouth to speak, but it takes me a while before I say, “I don’t understand.” Something tells me I won’t like this, and I’m starting to sweat.

“I think you’ve figured out how to change yourself to make other people happy. I’ve seen you tailor your facial expressions, your actions, even what you say, to be what you think I prefer. And now, I suspect, you’re trying, unconsciously perhaps, to change your music to be what people like. But that’s impossible, Anna. Because it’s art. You can’t please everyone. The second you change it so one person likes it, you’ll lose someone who liked it the way it was before. Isn’t that what you’ve been doing as you go in circles? You have to learn how to listen to yourself again, to be yourself.”