Have you ever felt pain as a result of playing your instrument? I did. For years.
During the early part of my study and career, no pain, no gain was the common belief. We were meant to tough it out and play through the pain. Discomfort was worn like a badge of honor, almost proof that we were serious about our craft. Now, of course, we understand just how damaging that philosophy can be-physically, mentally, and artistically.
Being the diligent person that I am, when I was instructed to push through, I did. Until I couldn’t anymore.
At the time, I was practicing many hours a day on two instruments. On top of that, I used my hands extensively in my day job as a bookkeeper. My body never really got a break, but I told myself this was simply the price of dedication. After all, you have to sacrifice for your art… right?
One day, while walking home with three bags of groceries, I realized something was very wrong. Halfway home, I knew I wasn’t going to make it. I put two bags down and carried one the rest of the way. Then I went back, picked up another, and repeated the process until everything was finally on my kitchen counter.
Then I tried to rub my forehead.
My arm made it halfway up and fell.
I tried again. This time, it didn’t even make it that far before it dropped uselessly at my side.
I assumed a little rest would fix everything. So I took it easy for a couple of days. As soon as my arm began to function “normally,” I jumped right back into practicing. Because, again—no pain, no gain. Or so I thought.
Not exactly.
As a result of overuse and abuse, I lost the use of my dominant arm for an entire year. A year. Just sit with that for a moment. I went from being a highly active musician to someone who couldn’t rely on their own arm to function.
There was a lot of bargaining with the universe during that time. I promised I would stop working outside of music if I could just get my arm back. I promised I would do things differently. I promised I would listen.
Ironically, that year taught me more about music and musicianship than many years of relentless practice ever had.
Since I couldn’t physically play in the usual way, I turned to mental practice. I did everything I could to support my music that didn’t involve using my dominant hand. I spent a great deal of time working with just the head joint of my flute to maintain my embouchure. I listened more deeply. I studied scores. I imagined sound, phrasing, and movement.
And somewhere in the middle of all that, a very important realization emerged:
If I wanted to be the best musician I could be, I first had to be the healthiest person I could be.
That realization changed everything.
I began educating myself about somatic and movement-based approaches that support healthy, efficient use of the body. I studied the work of Moshe Feldenkrais and the Alexander Technique, both of which helped me understand how unnecessary tension was interfering with my playing. These methods didn’t ask me to push harder-they asked me to become more aware, more balanced, and more kind to myself.
I continued my yoga practice as well, but in a much more forgiving and flexible way. Instead of forcing shapes or chasing intensity, I focused on balance, ease, and breath. Incorporating disciplines that support aligned posture and supple musculature gave me a strong foundation-one from which sound, expression, and endurance could flow naturally.
Body Mapping was another eye-opening discovery. Understanding how the body is actually structured and designed to move, rather than how we think it works, made an enormous difference. The insights offered by Penelope Roskell, in particular, were invaluable in helping me translate anatomical knowledge directly into healthier, more effective playing.
I had always been mindful about nutrition, but during my recovery I became even more careful about what kind of fuel I put into my body. We truly are what we eat, and healing requires nourishment. I was especially grateful for a food processor gifted by a dear friend who worried I might starve if I couldn’t chop vegetables. She was probably right.
While I relied on excellent physicians to help me regain use of my arm, I also researched nontraditional and complementary methods to support their work. Even though this was many years ago, I was fortunate to find a neurologist who valued and incorporated these approaches into his practice. That combination of conventional medicine, movement education, and mindful selfcare ultimately made all the difference.
I’m happy to say that, by applying every tool available to me, I was able to return to a full career in performance and teaching.
But I also knew something else: if I wanted to maintain my performance health, I couldn’t treat this work as temporary rehabilitation. It had to become a way of life.
And it has.
Everything I learned during that injury continues to inform how I practice, perform, and teach. Healthy practice techniques are no longer optional extras—they are central to my approach. I incorporate them into every class I teach, because I believe musicians deserve longevity, freedom, and joy in their art.
My hope is that my students will never experience the kind of injury I did. Not because they are “lucky,” but because they are knowledgeable. Because they understand from the very beginning that pain is not proof of progress, and suffering is not a prerequisite for artistry.
No pain does not mean no gain.
No pain means freedom-the freedom to play with ease, expression, and sustainability for a lifetime.