During several college summers and falls, I worked at a local high school with the marching band. I generally worked with the front ensemble or “pit,” which consisted of all the mallet instruments, synthesizers, and other auxiliary percussion. This was a lot of fun, and a lot of it was right up my alley as a percussion performance major in college. I had never played in marching band myself, but I knew and understood the instruments the kids were playing.

To be honest, though, I always felt a little bit like a fraud in this job. This was classic “imposter syndrome,” where you feel like you don’t really know what you’re doing and you’re going to be “found out” at any moment. I felt like I was teetering on the edge of that cliff the entire time I worked this school job. The kids were great, the instructors were great, and the band director was a great guy to work for. But I always felt like I wasn’t really cut out for doing...

The envelope sat on the kitchen table, staring up at me. This was it. This moment would decide my future. What was about to take place would set into motion the course of the rest of my life… what friends I’d have, what kind of music career I’d have, where I’d live…who I’d marry. All of this would be determined by one of two words: …pleased… or …regret… Which would it be?

Hundreds of emotions coursed through my unemotional persona on this spring afternoon my senior year of high school. Would my dream college accept me? Will plan A work? I had worked so hard for this. I had practiced like crazy all through my senior year, preparing for a music school audition I honestly had no business attempting. I had never played percussion before, yet I had signed up for a percussion audition. I had never played jazz drumset before, yet I auditioned for the drumset program. My high school drum teacher had put me through a crash...