A personal reflection on why insisting can sometimes be an act of belief
By Sean J. Kennedy
(Written December 2025, edited May 2026)
At the Moment of the Question
A friend recently asked me whether they should encourage—or insist—that their middle school–aged son, a strong saxophone player, continue with band in high school. He had told his mom he didn’t want to continue, without offering any clear reason.
It’s a question that comes up often during periods of transition, when students are moving from one stage of life into another, and every time I hear it, I’m taken back to eighth grade—when I was just as ready to walk away from music before I had any idea what it might become.
When parents tell me their child is thinking about quitting band before high school, I think back to that year—and how close I came to doing exactly that.
Before I Knew What I Was Walking Away From
I wanted to play drums, but my parents insisted I start with piano. “Learn piano first, and you’ll be able to play anything,” they told me. They were absolutely right.
I began piano lessons in fourth grade and did well playing Beethoven and Mozart, but I was far more interested in improvising, making up my own songs, and playing movie and television themes by ear. Once, I even turned Beethoven’s Für Elise into a boogie-woogie, much to the horror of my private teacher.
From 1980 to 1984, piano was my entire musical world. I didn’t even own any drums.
The Night Someone Didn’t Let Me Quit
Everything changed in eighth grade, thanks to my math teacher, Sr. Regina Ward, at St. Catherine of Siena School.
One afternoon, she handed me a pamphlet about a high school marching band meeting happening that very night at Archbishop Wood High School and told me to give it to my parents and attend. She thought it would be a good group for me.
I, of course, discarded the pamphlet and said nothing.
Fortunately, she didn’t trust me to pass the information along.
That night, as my family was getting ready for dinner, she called our house. I picked up the phone, and in no uncertain terms, she asked why I was still home. Then she said, “Put your mother on the phone.”
What followed was a very clear—and well-deserved—conversation about why I hadn’t shared the information. My parents made it equally clear that I was going to that meeting.
About an hour later, I found myself in an unfamiliar school, surrounded by students and instructors I didn’t know, completely out of my comfort zone.
Belonging Before Confidence
Looking back, I understand what I couldn’t see then: major transitions are often the moments when young people are least confident in their own judgment.
When the students were divided by instrument, I thought I was off the hook. I played piano, after all. But the band director noticed “piano” next to my name and said, “You’ll be with the percussion section.”
Because of my keyboard background, they placed me on xylophone immediately. I wasn’t especially excited—until I realized I was making music with other people for the first time.
Up to that point, I had only ever played alone.
That first rehearsal mattered more than I understood at the time. I was learning what it felt like to belong, to contribute, and to be part of something larger than myself.
Then we joined the drummers.
I was standing behind the school near a concrete stairwell when I heard two snare drummers warming up, playing rolls. I had never seen or heard drums live before. The sound stopped me. Something clicked, even though I didn’t yet have the language for it.
I wasn’t confident. I wasn’t motivated. I was simply there long enough for the moment to catch me.
I wasn’t resisting music—I was resisting the unknown.
That’s something we often forget during times of transition—whether it’s moving into high school, starting college, joining a new community, or stepping into any unfamiliar environment.
Music programs often provide exactly what students need during uncertain periods of transition: structure, mentorship from older peers, shared goals, and a sense of identity that extends beyond academics.
Why “One More Year” Matters
Had my parents or teachers accepted my resistance as final, none of what followed would have happened.
I wouldn’t have taken private percussion lessons, joined community and pit orchestras, started bands in my parents’ garage and basement, or played my first paid gig as a sophomore in high school.
That one forced meeting eventually led me to college, graduate school, and ultimately to earning a Doctor of Arts degree in music. Along the way, I’ve performed across the country, appeared on Good Morning America and at Carnegie Hall, and become friends and collaborators with musicians I once considered untouchable heroes.
Somewhere in the middle of all of that, during my undergraduate years, I met my future wife—also a musician.
None of those outcomes were visible to me as an eighth grader standing in an unfamiliar school, entirely out of my comfort zone. They didn’t happen because I had a plan or exceptional foresight. They happened because someone insisted I stay long enough for possibility to find me.
I didn’t discover a passion by asking for it. I found it because someone believed I should stay.
So when a young person resists stepping into something new, I hear something different now. I hear uncertainty. I hear fear of change. I hear someone standing at a threshold, unsure what lies on the other side.
The story began with a middle school band decision, but over time, I realized the lesson had far less to do with music than with transition itself.
Sometimes the most supportive thing a parent can do in those moments isn’t stepping back—it’s holding firm. Not out of pressure, but out of belief.
I didn’t walk through the door because I knew where it led.
I walked through because someone made sure it stayed open long enough for me to step inside.