He knew where he wanted to be, but was almost afraid to admit he didn’t know how to get there. If he was being honest, he wasn’t even sure where to start. Carnegie Hall had always been this distant dream, not just a place, but a symbol of everything he admired—of everything he wanted to be. But here he was, miles away, unsure of how to even set his feet on the right path.
He had heard the names of the greats who had stood on that stage. Their performances had left an indelible mark on the world, and he wanted nothing more than to be in the audience, to feel that magic for himself, to be inspired by the notes that floated through that hallowed hall.
But life had a way of pulling him in other directions. Work was busy, and the days grew longer, each one slipping away without him making any real progress toward his goal. There was always something else—an errand, a last-minute meeting, or simply the comfort of staying where he was, far from the intimidating grandeur of that place. Each week, he’d tell himself he’d go. He’d plan the trip. And yet, each week, the excuses piled up, the road ahead somehow seeming longer and more cluttered with obstacles.
One evening, after another day of putting off the dream, he found himself staring at his reflection in the window, the city lights blurring in the background. Why did he want to go so badly? What was he really looking for? He imagined sitting in the audience, watching someone else stand under the lights, playing with the kind of ease and mastery he envied. He wanted to learn from them, to feel their presence, to soak up whatever it was that made them worthy of that stage.
But as the thought settled, a new one crept in beside it. Maybe it wasn’t about watching someone else perform. Maybe that’s why he hadn’t made it there yet. He’d been thinking too small, as though all he could ever hope for was to sit in a seat, admiring from a distance. Maybe… maybe it was about more than just being in the audience.
A quiet realization washed over him. It wasn’t about the journey to get to Carnegie Hall, not in the way he had imagined it. It wasn’t about walking through the doors, finding his seat, and watching someone else achieve greatness. It was about the hours spent alone in a room, the repetition, the mistakes, and the slow, steady improvement that no one saw but him. It was about making his way there not as a spectator, but as someone who belonged on that stage.
His reflection stared back at him, and for the first time, he didn’t see someone on the outside looking in. He saw someone who could, with enough persistence, become the performer he so admired. The path wasn’t a series of train schedules or directions, and it wasn’t something he could ask for help finding.
It was the hours he hadn’t yet put in, the work he hadn’t yet done.
He stood up, a new resolve settling in his chest. If he wanted to be there, really be there, he already knew the way. And for the first time, he was ready to take the first step.