I remember the day it came; it was in a huge box, being delivered by FedEx, but I couldn’t be home, so I left instructions for the delivery person to leave it in my garage. I wanted nothing more than to get home and open it.

That was the day that rekindled my childhood love affair with music; the day I became next in the chain of love for an instrument older than I am — the horn I now play.

At first, it was a real challenge to even make a single note; it had been well over 30 years since I last played a horn, not long after I left college, and the one I owned, then, was not a joy at all. It was never a good fit, and all musicians know that the relationship with a musical instrument goes far beyond the ability to simply play it. Think of it more like a kinship; there’s a synergy that happens when the right instrument comes along, and that never quite happened with my old horn. I lost the desire to play it when I dropped out of college, and it became an expensive paperweight. Eventually, I sold it; putting groceries on the table and being able to pay rent were bigger priorities.

So when this new-to-me horn arrived, I was cautious. I wanted to play, but would I find that inexplicable spark, again? Or would it become just another thing I do for a while, and then try to ignore that neglected horn case sitting in the corner of a room? Those early days of playing were rough, and if I laid off for any length of time, I had to start over from scratch, or nearly so. Reading music, again, was also a challenge; music is a language you can lose, just like high school French class.

The process was much like starting a weight loss journey, and I honestly didn’t know at the time whether the journey would be more like a trip to Walmart — or a world tour. Beginning anything big, again, is a matter of fits and starts; and as an adult, I knew I’d have to set aside my ego and understand that this wasn’t something I was going to be good at any time in the near future… or ever.

My weight loss journey has been very similar to my experience jumping back into music; at first, it was a challenge. I failed, and often. I still fail miserably at both, on occasion, like anything else I do. I still have to pick myself up, brush myself off, give myself a firm reality check, and decide if the occasional stumble is worth continuing the journey. Too many times over the course of my life, the stumbles have stopped me.

There are continual tipping points in both journeys; will I quit and never look back, waiting for someone to ask me, “hey, what happened to __?” At which point, I admit defeat and awkwardly change the subject. The truth is that such tipping points come every single day; is this the day I stop worrying about what I put in my mouth? Not step on the scale? Not practice?

Every day — every single day — I have to recommit myself to every single thing I want to succeed at and do well, because those things we do well always come at a price we must be willing to pay. Nothing comes easy at first. Everything I find easy, now, was difficult at some point, and I made it past those early failures. That’s what is necessary to move forward in anything that matters.

The musical reward, for me, comes this Saturday; I’ll step onto a stage with around sixty other musicians that doubtless make the same daily commitment I do, in varying degrees of ability, and make music. Making music is the reward, and I’ll forget everything else once the first downbeat starts. It’s the process, not the performance, at least for me.

The bigger reward in literally thousands of daily re-commitments to improving my health is in being able to enjoy the outcome of the effort; it’s an ongoing process that continues to improve the more I practice. It’s in every breathing moment, whether it’s hiking in the woods, going about my day easily, or the pleasure of music.