We all remember them–whether you were the last chair violist in your high school orchestra, someone who played piano once when you were a child, or the first chair oboe player in the all-state band– someone comes to mind when you see “that one music teacher.” Even if you can’t play the violin anymore, you remember all of the emotions, don’t you? In twenty years, won’t you still remember the orchestra director who stood in front of you every day for all four years of your high school, the band director who stood there in defeated silence while you and your friends did the weirdest things, or the voice teacher who let you walk into a lesson and start bawling over entirely irrelevant matters?

I remember. I remember my first piano teacher who held my hand when everyone else was afraid to touch it. She taught me how to use it to make simple melodies happen and passed me on to the next teacher, who showed me the connection between music and emotions and who let me play with her dog. I remember each of the piano teachers that I’ve had, who have loved me, taught me, and helped me cultivate my passions while, somewhere in there, I was unconsciously learning how to commit to them, to work for them, and to follow them.

I remember my first voice teacher who taught me that even though I have a little voice, my voice is something that's worth using. I remember the next teacher, the one who I secretly told myself “I want to be just like her,” who knew me better than many of my best friends did. I remember my orchestra director from high school, who helped me learn to love not just the music in my life, but also the people around me, service, compassion, and patience (and how to finally stop showing up late for all of those rehearsals).

There’s something about music that creates a bond that never really goes away, even when you’ve tearfully graduated from your high school orchestra and said goodbye to all of the competitions and auditions that once stressed you out so much or when you call your most recent private lesson teacher and tell her that you’re moving to a different phase of your life now. Something stays. You start forgetting techniques and rhythms here and there, but you can’t shake the image of a moment where what you heard in your head finally came into being on your cello, harp, or flute or the first time that you held that really high note in that one piece.

Maybe it’s because of all of the personal time that you spent with that one teacher. You never really understood why you trusted them so much, but when you experienced your first breakup or celebrated your first "A" in a hard class, you just wanted to share it with them for some reason. Maybe it’s because you learned to release your emotions around them, knowing that every lesson and rehearsal with them was a safe space where you could just be yourself and be praised for it.

It’s like the moment right after a beautiful piece ends when the audience sits in captivated silence for a few seconds before they break into applause and leave the auditorium. For those of us who were lucky enough to have that teacher in our lives, we’re always living in that moment after we say goodbye to them. Even when the music fades away, none of the memories will and neither will your love for them. You will keep missing them or wishing for another lesson. Maybe all that we really have to do when it’s over is continue to love them and to say thank you for being that person in my life.