When I was five years old, I started taking piano lessons.

‍

Well—to be more accurate—I didn’t have much of a say in the matter. My mother signed me up.

‍

Once a week, my older sister and I would go to the basement of our church for our lesson with a woman who, at the time, seemed incredibly old to me but was probably only middle-aged. My sister went first, and then it was my turn.

‍

Now, here’s the thing about teaching a five-year-old to play piano—you have to instill some level of discipline, some degree of structure, so they have a real chance of improving and, more importantly, sticking with it.

‍

Back then, we learned from beginner piano workbooks. Once you completed one, you moved up to the next level. At the end of each lesson, my piano teacher would pull out a big spiral notebook and write down the songs I was supposed to learn that week.

‍

Then, she would draw five big circles next to each song. It looked something like this:

‍

The circles represented my practice routine. Each one stood for a day, and I was supposed to practice each song five times per day, marking each playthrough with a tally. By the next lesson, the circles were meant to be completely filled in, like this:

‍

You might be thinking—jeez, that’s a little intense for a five-year-old, isn’t it?

‍

But here’s the kicker: I didn’t know any better!

‍

I honestly thought every kid had to go to piano lessons once a week. At that age, I’m not even sure I knew how to tie my own shoes. It was just another part of life.

‍

And the craziest part? It actually worked. Those little circles were how I learned to play the piano.

‍

From an early age, a good portion of my worldview revolved around consistency. If you wanted to improve at piano, you had to practice five times per day, five days a week.

‍

At this point, I might be losing you a little. You might be thinking, “Good for you, Matt! Great job with the circles! Glad you were a disciplined little freak since the age of five!”

‍

But here’s the bad news: this level of discipline, while effective, can have some unintended consequences later in life.

‍

Let me explain why.

‍

Little Sleeper Agents

You probably have a goal in mind that you’d like to accomplish this year. Let’s brush off those New Year’s resolutions and think back to something you wanted to cross off the ol’ to-do list. Maybe you want to lose weight. Or write a book. Or learn Spanish.

‍

So, you hop on Google or YouTube or TikTok and look up how to get better at it. And there’s some guru with millions of followers, dishing out the magic advice: Just practice for 20 minutes a day! That’s it! And voilà! You’ll become an expert just like me.

‍

They make it seem so easy, don’t they?

‍

You just have to walk for 20 minutes a day. That’s only four laps around the block! You just have to write for 20 minutes a day. That’s only 100 words—practically nothing!

‍

If you want to get better at something, you have to do it every day, right? Right?!

‍

When I hear advice like this, it’s as if the five-year-old version of me—the little sleeper agent—suddenly wakes up and starts drawing five circles on a page. I tell myself, Of course! How simple! Surely I can write 100 words per day!

‍

I start fantasizing about how happy and fulfilled I’ll be once I’ve written 100 words a day.

‍

But then, the dark clouds roll in.

‍

Because it’s not that simple at all. That’s the catch.

‍

I don’t just want to write a novel. I want to write a novel and get better at piano (and guitar too—can’t forget about guitar!). I want to learn Italian. I want to get better at cooking. I want to get fitter, faster, healthier. I want to go for that promotion at work.

‍

You get the idea.

‍

Before I know it, my notebook is a chaotic mess of tasks and circles—a haunting representation of my hopes and dreams, staring back at me blankly from the page.

‍

Remember when it was only supposed to take 20 minutes a day? Feels like a lifetime ago.

‍

Now, all of a sudden, that disciplined little freak has become an overwhelmed little freak, forced to choose between the endless options life has to offer.

‍

And on top of that, all those little circles don’t even account for everything else you have to do in a day—like working or eating or sleeping. They don’t factor in life’s wonderfully unexpected time sucks either, like your dog spitting up a puddle of water slime on the carpet or a protest blocking traffic on the freeway. They don’t care if you’ve had a long day at work (or a long year, for that matter), or the fact that you're not a robot, and there are natural rhythms to your energy and motivation. And they’ll keep multiplying until you feel sufficiently guilty about all the dreams slipping through your fingers.

‍

So what are you supposed to do about this mess?

‍

The Imperial March Is Actually More Joyful Than You Think

This might be the part where you expect me to tell you some feel-good platitudes like: Pick one thing and run with it! or Embrace the messiness of life! or Trust the process!

‍

But the truth is, none of those things are going to work—because none of them address the root issue of manically drawing little circles in a notebook.

‍

The problem isn’t a lack of discipline. It’s a lack of joy.

‍

There’s nothing joyful about doing something over and over just to make little tally marks in a notebook—or just to say you “got it done” for the day.

‍

Let me end with a story.

‍

From the age of five to twelve, I took piano lessons. For the most part, I wasn’t all that crazy about it—it was just part of life.

‍

But when I turned twelve, I decided I wanted to learn guitar.

‍

I went to my first guitar lesson, and my teacher taught me the main melody of The Imperial March from Star Wars. It was only the first three or four measures (he didn’t want to overwhelm me), but I left that lesson feeling like that song—an actual cool song that I knew, not one from a dumb workbook—was just below my fingertips. I went home that night and practiced like crazy so that by my next lesson, I’d be ready to learn the rest.

‍

For the first time, I was learning an instrument on my own terms, in a way that felt joyful. All the rigidity and structure I had known from my piano lessons—the rules, the schedules, the circles—had completely gone out the window. I could learn whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. Suddenly, I was free.

‍

I don’t remember a single time in those first few years of learning guitar when I made myself practice. I just played all the time because it was a source of joy—and a heck of a lot better than doing my homework. Without that joy, I probably wouldn’t have gone on to study guitar at Berklee College of Music.

‍

Long story short: if you’re trying to accomplish something—big or small—don’t just commit to spending X minutes a day on it or forcing yourself through some random, repetitive task. Commit to finding joy in it instead, and you’ll be amazed at what follows.

‍

As Helen Keller said, “Joy is the holy fire that keeps our purpose warm and our intelligence aglow.”