It’s in my nature.

Written by Amithi Tadigadapa

Two weeks ago I went to dinner with a close friend of mine. We were exhausted from the difficult week we had both had, floundering in piles of work and feeling the weight of the year coming down on us. We sat across from each other, the room lit with warm, yellow light. We engaged in a meandering conversation about our worries and the sweetness of the tea I was drinking. It was normal and comforting and routine. I brought up music, as she and I are cellists, and we laughed about orchestra rehearsals and the difficulty of learning Shostakovich’s cello concerto.

“I’ve had so much less time to practice this semester,” she noted, “it’s been really difficult to keep up with it all.”

I hummed in agreement, thinking about my recent failed practice sessions. We consoled each other about minimal time to play and the infinite conundrum of balancing what we love with our ‘worldly’ academic obligations.

In the midst of our mild commiseration session, I quietly confessed, “Now that I’m not as involved with music and performance as much this year, I think I’m less interesting. It kinda feels like some of my identity is gone.”

The conversation pauses. The chatter of those around us gets gentler somehow, and the sound of my nails picking at my skin is deafening. I feel my eyes become cloudy and slices of tension pull through my stomach. I can suddenly hear my heartbeat clearly—blood pushing and pulsing. I look up to see her eyes turn equally as red around the edges. We’re silent, and there is a heaviness in the air. It takes a while for us to leave after that.

Ever since that conversation, I have been thinking about what I said. Thinking and ruminating and anxiously hoping for some reprieve from the discomfort of feeling like a part of me had gone missing. From feeling like I had made the wrong decision in choosing to study neuroscience instead of my artistic passions. Hoping that I could return to the days when I was wrapped up in the classical music world, with little else to worry about. My plea was answered shortly after though, when I decided to watch the play Vanya, based on Anton Chekvo’s Uncle Vanya. Admittedly, watching it didn’t solve my problems or give me some magical remedy to the heartache, but it invigorated me in a way I wasn’t expecting. It was some fateful decision that suddenly put my rumination into perspective, and gave me a new way of thinking about my music.

I was primarily drawn to watching Vanya because of Andrew Scott. I loved him in Fleabag and Sherlock and thought his acting in the context of the theatre had to be as great as his acting on screen. The secondary, and less surface-level attraction, was my search for meaningful media. I had just come off a week of watching dating reality TV shows and was itching for something more than contrived drama and gossip. My Instagram algorithm knew me well, as I had seen ads for National Theatre at Home’s production of Vanya in previous weeks. I decided that the premise of a one-man play, exploring the fragile ecosystem of a dysfunctional family, was exactly what I was craving.

From the moment the play began and Scott stepped onto the stage, I was entranced. He masterfully played a total of eight characters by himself. It was almost nauseating to watch at first, seeing Scott’s mannerisms switch between breaths and between milliseconds. Flipping on, then off, then on again. In one moment he was Sonia, the daughter of a washed-up filmmaker, in the other he was Micheal, the brooding doctor. Like magic, he created a universe with only his body.

The emotional athleticism of Scott’s performance was like nothing I had seen before. And within that awe, I felt so connected to the characters he was embodying. I could somehow relate to Ivan’s pent-up anger and Sonia’s girlish naivety. I don’t want to give an analysis of the play here (although it deserves one, undoubtedly), but the themes of love, longing, grief, and, most striking to me, unencumbered hope, left an indelible etching in my memory.

I came away from Vanya feeling that same giddiness I get after watching a performance that electrocutes my skin with inspiration to just create. A buzz wove into my brain, reigniting my dormant musical muscles. All I wanted to do after watching it was listen to music, go to the practice rooms to play, and immerse myself in the creative process.

I get so caught up in what I need to accomplish and what my next goal is that I sometimes forget how much I love to make, to create. Vanya reminded me of the joy that surrounds creativity and performance. Watching Scott navigate the stage with such dexterity proved to me that there is still so much for me to try and learn. I can’t claim absolute inspiration, however. I admit that I still feel at odds with the part of me that thought I would be a cellist, performing at every opportunity I could get, always surrounded by musicians.

I’m studying the brain now, I don’t perform as much, and I’m mostly surrounded by ravenous pre-med students. A slightly different path than what I envisioned, but one that is fulfilling nonetheless. There is always a dull and painful ache in my chest when I hear that friends of mine chose to pursue music and I didn’t. I feel guilty that I cannot devote the same energy to music as I used to, that I can’t go on tours with my orchestra, that I can’t feel the joy of playing with a string quartet, that the part of me that I used to hold so close has wandered away.

So maybe I am less interesting. Maybe I can’t wear my artistic pursuits like badges anymore. Maybe the delicate balance of playing the cello and my career is not really balanced. Maybe that is okay.

I still feel the same warmth when I can play a piece that I love. I am certain that I can foster the same dedication to my instrument, even if it feels different from a couple of years ago. And that is what I continue to think about Scott’s Vanya performance. He played six people. He represented the multiplicity that I so long for. He told story after story and left me feeling like I could take over the world. In that way, I know I can produce beautiful music and art, and also consume it. I can constantly pursue the unimaginable feeling that comes with telling stories—and be okay with sometimes failing at it.

In the final moments of Vanya, Scott gives a monologue in which a particular moment has lingered in my mind ever since. “Everything has its nature. And our nature is to try, and to never stop trying. And in those last minutes, we’ll see that our lives were beautiful…”