The Smell of a French Horn Case
There are moments in life when we’re suddenly transported back in time — to a different version of ourselves, when life felt simpler, and the future stretched out far ahead.
This morning, walking into work, I paused mid-step. A scent hit me — not a bad one, but unmistakable.
It took me straight back to my middle school years, to the days when I was in band. I played the French horn — not particularly well, but I tried.
The smell came from a French horn case. It’s not an easy scent to describe, but it’s lodged deep in memory. Metallic without being sharp — like an old coin kept in a velvet pouch. Beneath that is the earthy undertone of wood and glue from the case itself, mingled with a musty sweetness. It’s a mix of spit valves, resin polish, worn fabric, and the ghost of rehearsals past. It’s almost more of an emotion than a scent — something you feel before you name.
That smell was a warm memory from a time when life itself wasn’t always so warm. You don’t encounter it often these days — unless you walk into a band room or an old music store. But in that moment, it felt like a quiet echo from the past.
Back then, I swore I’d become the greatest French horn player in the world. The truth? I was so bad, dogs would howl when I practiced. I borrowed that instrument from school, carrying it with me as we moved from one town to the next. I tried — for three years.
That single memory led to another. And another. Until I found myself standing in a flood of moments that helped shape who I am today.
I always wanted to create music — to pour myself into something without being scolded or silenced. Instruments became a safe outlet for that. My mother once told me my singing voice was like nails on a chalkboard. So I never thought of singing as an option, even after I was the only student in my elementary school chosen for Opus — a prestigious honor choir made up of just 180 students across grades 4–8.
That experience was surreal. I got to travel by bus and sing Christmas songs with other students from all over the country. No one in my family came to watch. Not even my mom. Being selected for Opus was a big deal. It opened doors — to vocal coaching, performance opportunities, even college paths. But right after my second concert, we moved. I lost my chance to try out again the next year.
My mom pushed me to stay with the French horn instead. Maybe because it meant less travel. Less involvement. Growing up, the rule was simple: if it meant my mom had to do anything extra, the answer was no. So I let go of Opus and stayed in band.
Now that you know the backstory, let me take you back to the moment that smell hit me.
I was in elementary school. We had just finished band class and were headed out to recess. We were playing a game where, if you got tagged, you had to sing something. I got tagged. So I belted out, full voice, in the middle of the playground:
“And Iiiiiii will always love youuuu!” — full Whitney Houston style.
Our band director heard me. She stared, then told me to follow her inside. I thought I was in trouble. She led me to the music room and brought in the choir teacher. I was asked to sit down.
Then I was asked to sing.
I matched pitch to piano notes, singing up and down the scales while the two women looked at each other in total disbelief.
“Have you ever sung before?” the choir teacher asked.
“I sing all the time,” I said. “Outside, in my room, on my bike…”
“No,” she clarified, “have you ever sung on stage?”
I answered honestly.
“Yes — I sang in Opus. Twice.”
They were floored. They knew what that meant — how selective it was, how competitive, how rare. Thousands of kids audition. Only 180 are chosen.
That was the day everything shifted. I was pulled out of band and placed into choir.
I spent the rest of my school years in music — singing in choirs, performing in plays, joining show choir. Those became some of the happiest years of my life. Even when the world shut down during COVID, I sang on Twitch Sings to help feed my family. Music, in its many forms, has remained my refuge — my relief.
And all of that came rushing back…
With the smell of a French horn case
It reminded me not just of childhood or music — but of something deeper. A truth I keep relearning as an adult:
We can’t always let others carve our paths for us.
Even with the best intentions (or sometimes, without any), people can steer us away from the very things that light us up inside.
That old French horn case smell — strange and specific as it is — reminded me of how easy it is to slip into choices that aren’t really ours. To follow directions instead of dreams. To stay where it’s convenient, instead of going where it’s right.
And here’s the kicker: sometimes, we’re still doing it.
We find ourselves stuck in jobs, routines, or roles that echo those old compromises. Doing things we’re good at… but not necessarily what we love. Doing what keeps the peace, not what sets our hearts on fire.
So that scent — that unexpected trigger from years ago — felt like more than a memory.
It felt like a reminder.
To listen.
To choose.
To stop waiting for permission to follow the thing that’s always been calling.
Because the path that’s meant for us?
It doesn’t come pre-carved.
We carve it ourselves.
Until next time, keep the coffee strong and the chaos manageable
The Overbooked Life 
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