Everyone seems to know the saying “practice makes perfect,” but it isn’t always true. Just several months ago, I realized this, and learned it the hard way. Practice can make perfect, but only if you practice the right way.

I had been practicing two pieces on the piano, Chopin’s Fantasie-Impromptu and a Bach piece, for several months. In March, I had performed the Chopin piece at a piano recital, and it had gone well, and I had auditioned for two music camps with the two pieces, and I had gotten into one. I was planning to compete in a competition in May, and I was confident, almost too confident.

“What could go wrong?” I thought to myself. “I’ve already worked really hard with these pieces, and they’re pretty good. I don’t have much to worry about.” I knew all of the notes, dynamics, articulation, phrasing, and had memorized it months before. People had complimented my playing, and even I thought it was good. I was ready.

“I don’t need to practice too much. If I just run through the pieces for the next few weeks, I’ll be good.” I had told myself, over and over. Little did I know that I would regret this decision.

On the morning of the competition, I stood in front of the mirror, wearing a white dress, as I brushed my tangled raven black hair out. I yawned and sighed nervously. “I’ll be fine.” I told myself. “I’m ready for this. I got this!” I grabbed my piano books and hopped into the black car waiting on the driveway.

The place we arrived at was a warehouse. It was by the airport, and was a tall gray structure looming over me. I nervously strode up the concrete step, clenching my sweaty hands. I waved at my dad, and he whispered, “Good luck!” to me as he pulled out of the street. I looked at my mom and my sister waiting in front of the building. My sister was smiling as she got into my dad’s car.

“Ellie! I won 500 dollars!” She played the violin, and had won first place in the violin competition earlier, but she just-so-happened to be the only one competing.

“Good job!” I shouted, high-fiving her as I passed her. “Nice! I’m sure you did amazing!” She beamed at me and closed the window, and I watched anxiously as their car rolled away into the distance.

Now it was my turn.

As I followed my mom into the building, I felt the ever-so-familiar butterflies in my stomach. My mom glanced at me behind her. “Ellie, you can go warm up in the other room.” She gestured towards a distant door, and I nodded as I marched through the room. The room was full of hundreds of pianos, each a different type.

When I arrived at the room, it was empty except for a large, brown grand piano. I set my books down onto the floor as I pulled the bench out and took a seat. I placed my hands on top of the keys, took a deep breath, and began to play the melodies I knew so well.

My fingers danced over the keys as I focused on playing my very best. I could describe what went through my head as I practiced, but it was just a giant mess of music terms and words that my piano teacher had taught me.

When I finished playing, I sighed nervously as the door behind me flew open. I turned to see what was happening, and saw several people clapping for me.

“You sound amazing!” A woman complimented, smiling at me.

“Thank you!” I replied. She started to walk away, so I resumed my practicing. I began to work through the two pieces, and felt satisfied once I fixed the Chopin piece quickly. I wasn’t as nervous, and only had one more piece to fix.

The Bach piece was a different story. I hadn’t worked on it for very long, but it was much shorter and in my opinion, easier. But once I started playing, I immediately began forgetting things that I had worked on, such as which fingers played which keys and how loud to play different notes, and even what notes to play. I sighed in frustration. Why was it going wrong?

“Ellie!” My mom shouted from outside the room. “You have five minutes, stop practicing and relax.”

“No! Mom, I can’t. I forgot some of the notes.” I told myself to stay calm and not to yell at her. “Okay, fine, I’ll take a break.”

We walked in silence to the main room, where the competition was being held, and I paused by a piano and started to fix the problems, but they just got worse the more I practiced.

I was doomed. I would fail the competition, and would be angry at myself.

I heard the judges calling my name, and followed my mom into the room. It was a dark room, although there were large windows, halfway covered by curtains, and two grand pianos. Behind the pianos was a table where the judges sat, and behind the judges’ table were chairs for the audience. I handed my music to the judges and walked to the front of the room.

I took a bow and sat down in front of the piano. I counted out the tempo in my head, placed my hands over the keys, and began to play the Fantasie-Impromptu.

It sounded nothing like how it had sounded in the other room. If someone was to rate it, my playing in the other room would be a seven or eight, and my playing here would be a two, if they were being generous. I tried to concentrate, but I physically couldn’t. My arms were tense and my playing was rushed and choppy.

When the disaster that was the Chopin piece was finished, I glanced over at the judges. They were scribbling furiously on their papers. One of them looked over at me, giving me the signal to start the next piece.

Everything that I had messed up on while practicing came back to bother me with the Bach. I started too fast, and couldn’t seem to control my playing. It couldn’t get any worse than that, I thought, as I stood up to bow after the piece was finished.

I walked, humiliated, out of the room and headed to whatever else I was doing that day, but I had learned a valuable lesson from the humiliation.

Although I had practiced for several months, and it had sounded good, the practice didn’t make the performance perfect. I had practiced badly, taking short-cuts and skipping what I really needed to work on, so my performance had gone bad. Maybe if you had heard it, it wouldn’t have been as bad to you, but I knew my potential. I knew how much better it could have gone, and if I hadn’t been so confident that it would go well, maybe it would have gone better.

Practice doesn’t always make perfect, but if you work hard, it can be perfect.