The Day I Learned That Music Should Belong to Everyone

Some of my earliest memories are filled with music.

As a child, I spent countless hours listening to the recordings of Jascha Heifetz, Nathan Milstein, and so many of the legendary violinists whose artistry seemed almost beyond imagination. I dreamed of becoming a violinist like them someday. To me, music wasn't simply something to admire. It was a world I longed to be part of.

That dream eventually carried me across the world. I left home to study with remarkable teachers in Australia and later in the United States, chasing the same goal that had inspired me since childhood: to become the best musician I could be.

For years, I believed that becoming a musician was simply a matter of dedication. Practice harder. Learn from the best. Never stop improving. That was the path I knew, and it was the one I devoted my life to.

Looking back now, I realize there was one lesson that none of those years of study ever taught me.

That lesson came from a sixth-grade classroom.

In May 2015, near the end of the school year, I had the opportunity to visit a sixth-grade music class. STL Ocarina had sponsored the school's ocarina program, and for an entire semester these students had been learning to play together. We were there that day to observe their progress and film a short video to celebrate what they had accomplished.

Walking into the classroom, I could immediately sense the excitement. The students were proud of what they had learned and eager to share their music. Their ocarinas rested on their desks, conversations filled the room, and there was an unmistakable feeling that something special had taken place over the past few months.

As I looked around the classroom, one student quietly caught my attention.

She wasn't trying to stand out. In fact, she seemed just like everyone else, excited to play alongside her classmates.

But there was something different about the instrument she was holding.

(See the classroom for yourself. Video below.)

As the class prepared to perform, I noticed that while nearly every student held a 12-hole ocarina, one student was holding a 6-hole.

At first, I assumed it was simply a personal preference. But as I watched more closely, I realized there was another reason.

She was missing two fingers on her right hand.

Later, I learned that she had insisted on joining the class even though she knew it would be more challenging for her. While her classmates learned on 12-hole ocarinas, she adapted by learning on a 6-hole instead. It wasn't the same instrument everyone else was playing, but it gave her the chance to learn alongside her classmates.

What moved me wasn't that she was different.

It was that she never seemed to think of herself that way.

She wasn't asking for sympathy. She wasn't asking for special recognition. She simply wanted the same chance as every other student in that classroom. She wanted to learn, to practice, to laugh with her friends, and to experience the joy of making music together.

As I watched her play, I couldn't stop thinking about the courage it must have taken to walk into that classroom on the very first day. It would have been so much easier for her to decide that music wasn't meant for someone like her.

Instead, she chose to try.

And without realizing it, she changed the way I would think about music for the rest of my life.

In that moment, I found myself reflecting on my own journey.

Ever since I was a child, my life had revolved around the violin. I spent years practicing, studying, and traveling across the world in pursuit of music. Along the way, I had the privilege of learning from extraordinary teachers who shaped me not only as a musician, but also as a person.

The violin gave me so much, but it also demanded so much in return. Years of disciplined practice, countless hours of repetition, and a body capable of doing exactly what the music required.

As I watched that young girl play her 6-hole ocarina, I found myself wondering what would have happened if the violin had been her only path into music. She may never have discovered the joy of playing, not because she lacked determination or passion, but because the instrument itself would have demanded something that her hands simply could not provide.

That thought lingered with me long after I left the classroom. Until then, I had always believed that becoming a musician was a matter of dedication, discipline, and perseverance. Those things are essential, but they are not where the journey begins. Before anyone can learn to love music, they must first be given the opportunity to make music.

As I reflected on that day, I realized something that has stayed with me ever since.

It is easy to say that music is for everyone. It is much harder to build a world where that is actually true.

That young girl taught me that inclusion is not something you simply believe. It is something you choose to practice. If we were going to tell people that the ocarina is an instrument for everyone, then we had a responsibility to live by those words. We could not simply hope that people would find a way to play. We had to find ways to help them play.

That realization became one of the guiding principles behind STL Ocarina.

Over the years, it has shaped countless decisions that many people may never notice. We have designed ocarinas for left-handed players, developed ambidextrous models, explored different materials, and created instruments in a wide range of sizes, weights, and price points. Every decision has been driven by the same question.

How can we make music available to one more person?

Looking back, I don't think that question began in a design meeting or a business plan.

I think it began in a sixth-grade classroom, with one determined student who simply wanted the chance to play.

More than a decade has passed since that visit to the classroom, yet I still remember that student and the lesson she taught me.

I don't know where life has taken her, but I hope she knows that her determination did far more than help her learn an instrument. It changed the way one musician, one teacher, and one company would think about music for years to come.

She reminded me that music is not reserved for those with perfect hands, years of training, or extraordinary talent. Music is one of the most fundamental ways we express ourselves, and everyone deserves the chance to experience it.

Whenever we design a new instrument, I still find myself returning to the lesson I learned in that classroom. Every new idea begins with the same simple question.

Who else can we help make music?

For me, that is what the ocarina has always represented. It is not simply an instrument. It is an invitation. An invitation to discover that making music is possible, no matter where you come from, how old you are, or what challenges you may face.

That lesson did not come from a conservatory, a concert hall, or one of the great teachers I was fortunate enough to study with.

It came from one determined sixth-grade girl who simply wanted the chance to make music.

And it is a lesson I will carry with me for the rest of my life.