When I was around 12 years old, I went to New York City with my mom for the day. I don’t remember everything about the day, but I do remember wanting to visit the Steinway store to look at the pianos.

They were obviously way out of my budget as a 12-year-old, but I got the idea in my head that maybe we would go there, buy one, and somehow magically fly it back to my house in Pennsylvania.

I woke up that morning with horrible period cramps and was vomiting on my aunt’s floor, trying to gather the energy to go on my NYC adventure. After a few doses of Midol and several “I’m dying” tears, I picked myself up off the floor, ready to get on a train and look at pianos.

I was anxious that day. I felt like I was holding back tears as we walked through the city on our way to the Steinway store. At the time, I didn’t know that what I was feeling was anxiety—I just thought I was a tween who couldn’t control her emotions. As we walked into the store, my Keds squeaked loudly on the overly shiny floors. My high-waisted jean shorts and poorly fitted green and orange t-shirt didn’t fit in at all. There were chairs set out and people standing around in suits and pretty dresses. It was eerily quiet for a piano store, and I was shocked at how loudly my squeaky sneakers echoed through the room. The ambiance made me feel like this wasn’t a piano store after all.

A sales associate came over to me and my mom and led us back into the showroom. They explained that a recital was starting soon for students who took lessons at the store. I peered over through the showroom glass at all the kids in suits, ties, and sparkly ballet flats, realizing that most of them were younger and shorter than me. After staring long enough, I looked around the showroom I was inside. The store attendant told me a bit about Steinway’s history (which I already knew) and some tidbits about what made each piano unique. They asked me if I played. I thought, Well, duh, why would someone who didn’t play piano come to look at pianos? But I didn’t say that. I just nodded silently.

I could tell my mom and the sales associate were both staring at me, waiting for me to sit down and play. After all, I had traveled all the way to New York City to touch a brand-new Steinway piano. The $70,000 white grand was calling my name, but the price tag wouldn’t dare let me touch the keys.

As I looked around at all the pianos waiting to be played, I suddenly began to cry. Everyone in the room (myself included) was completely confused. Even though I had traveled so far, I suddenly didn’t want to play anymore. The posh suits outside, the shiny pianos with big price tags, the politeness of the sales associate—it all felt too out of place.

I felt like I was standing in someone else’s dream, thrifted jean shorts and all.

After a few minutes of crying, I sat down at a black baby grand piano and played the only thing I could remember at that moment: the classic “Für Elise.” It was the first thing I had learned, in my basement with stickers and markers all over my 66-key keyboard. I didn’t learn by reading music, I stickered my keys until I remembered the patterns. I played half the song, and the sales associate gave me an applause. He asked how long I had been taking lessons. I don’t remember if I answered, but I assume I dodged the question since I had never actually sat in a piano lesson in my life. My teaching consisted of hours on YouTube and color-coding my keys so I could tell them apart.

As I left the building, I watched the first kid preparing to play their piece. She had more grace and class than I had in my entire pinky toe. In a sparkly black dress and ballet flats, she sat down to play the biggest and most sophisticated Steinway piano I had ever seen. She had elegance, poise, and if she was nervous, I couldn’t tell. I, on the other hand, squeaked when I walked and cried when I saw a room full of expensive pianos.

I don’t remember playing a Steinway again after that. I haven’t played on a stage since high school, and I never took lessons to learn to read music.

I still, however, get overly emotional and play to calm myself down. My piano at home was a gift. It has tape on the bottom and scratches on the cover. It’s bumped up and bruised, but from it comes a beautiful sound.

I can’t shake the realization that feeling like I don’t belong is a theme that carried through my childhood into adulthood. Sometimes, rooms filled with people who you aspire to be like can get overwhelming.

I wish I could say that I played the piano in the showroom so beautifully that everyone attending the recital turned to look and see who was playing. But that’s not what happened. I dulled my sound, quieted my voice, and played half of what I knew because I was intimidated by feeling out of place.

I still dream of playing a white Steinway grand concert piano. Maybe one day I’ll have the courage, even if the opportunity presents itself at a time when I feel out of place…