Why is Muzette different?
Why do I teach the way I do?
Let me tell you a little story about my first piano teacher.
I was seven. I couldn’t wait to start playing piano. My older sister was at university, studying music and English. The piano was my first real obsession. I wanted to be just like her—I still do, in many ways.
So, I started with lessons at school. It was easy, affordable, and convenient—no need for my parents to drive me anywhere. We had a piano at home, so practising was never a problem. I didn’t work too hard, to be honest, but I played around a lot. I’d try my pieces up high and down low on the keys, I used the sustain pedal long before I was supposed to, and I spent hours figuring out the notes to my favourite songs.
It was fun. At least, playing at home was fun.
My first teacher was the same person who had taught my brother in Grade 1—twelve years earlier. I still remember my parents complaining when he wanted to quit piano.
“You’ll regret it one day when you’re an adult!”
And you know what? In a way, they were right. He really did want to learn to play.
But here’s the thing: when you’re seven or eight, and your teacher is unkind—almost vindictive—of course you’re not going to want to continue.
Continuing piano would have meant continuing the emotional bruising. But no one questioned the teacher. They just thought my brother was being lazy.
Yes, she was a brilliant pianist. But she was not brilliant with children.
Let me tell you about “The Incident.”
I was religious about bringing my music book to school on lesson days. I wasn’t the most diligent student, but I took pride in being prepared for piano.
One day, I forgot my book. It happens. I knew she had her own copy, so I wasn’t worried. I still brought my lunch along, as my lesson was just before break.
But I wasn’t prepared for what came next.
She was furious. She shouted at me, and then she said something I will never forget.
She looked at me, and with an icy, cutting voice said:
“You always remember your lunch, don’t you? That’s why you’re fat. Fat kids like you have their priorities all wrong.”
That moment changed my life.
It was the last day I ever brought food to school.
I didn’t take lunch to school again for the remaining eleven and a half years.
I’ve had four piano teachers in total. Not one of them was kind. I never told my parents what was going on. If I had, they probably would’ve said I was being dramatic—or lazy—and told me to get back to it and try harder.
I know there have been worse stories than mine. Some piano teachers used to hit students over the knuckles with screwdrivers. One of my students told me their former teacher used to prick their hand with a needle for every wrong note.
So, years later, when I quit my corporate job very suddenly and needed to start something—anything—I turned to teaching piano out of desperation. I hadn’t touched a piano in more than a decade. I had no idea how to help someone learn piano without starting to resent it.
And then I had a brainwave:
Whatever the teachers did… I would do the opposite.
And you know what? It worked.
When a student plays the wrong note, I usually smile and say something like:
“Hey, that sounded lovely—definitely not this piece, but you might be onto something!”
or
“Wow, you’re really making this your own! Let’s also practise the version the composer had in mind, okay?”
At some point, I realised I could be passionate and patient at the same time.
I started to imagine every little student as a little version of myself—or my brother. What would we have needed? That’s the way I try to teach.
And then I began teaching teens and adults, and I realised: they need the same kindness, patience, and encouragement too.
In the next part of this series, I’ll get into some of the specific ways I support students through frustration or fear. But for now, I just wanted you to know the why behind my teaching.
Because at Muzette, joy comes before perfection.
Progress comes before pressure.
And piano is taught with equal parts passion and care.
