Part 12 of the 20-part Between Mind and Body series

When I was in my early 20s, my mom took care of this little boy named Jason. I think he was around 4 or 5 years old. I guess you could say she babysat him. He was a very good kid, well-mannered, full of personality, and just a lot of fun to be around.

Often, my mom would also watch her grandson, my sister’s son, at the same time. He was around Jason’s age, and the two of them played really well together. Watching them laugh, run around, use their imaginations, and simply enjoy being kids brought my mom a great deal of joy.

She loved making lunch for them, setting up little activities, listening to their conversations, and just being part of their day. There was something very natural and alive about it. The house felt full of energy and warmth. The days seemed to move quickly, not in a rushed way, but in the way time sometimes does when you are fully present with something simple and meaningful.

Looking back now, I can see how much happiness it brought her just to care for them, to be part of those ordinary moments of life as they unfolded.

About a year or so into watching Jason, his mother called my mom one morning and said that Jason was not feeling well and would not be coming over because she was taking him to the doctor. At first, nothing about it seemed especially alarming. Kids that age get sick. They get fevers, earaches, stomach pains, and colds. It just felt like one of those ordinary things that happen in life.

Jason stayed home the rest of the week while they ran some tests.

Then another phone call came.

This time, Jason’s mother told my mom that the test results showed he appeared to have a brain tumor.

I still remember how heavy that news felt. One moment everything had seemed so normal and full of life, and the next, something had completely changed. I could see the sadness in my mom immediately. Not dramatic or outward in some big emotional way, but deep. She cared about this little boy. He had become part of her daily life, part of the rhythm of her days, and suddenly there was this painful uncertainty surrounding him.

I think moments like that remind us how quickly life can change, and how little control we really have over many of the things we become attached to.

In the weeks that followed, my mom continued taking care of Jason while he was going through chemotherapy and all that comes with something like that. His mother was still working, so whenever she needed help, my mom continued watching him during the day. Doctor visits, treatments, exhaustion, and the uncertainty surrounding it all slowly became part of the background of everyday life.

In many ways, things still appeared normal, at least as normal as they could. The boys still played together. My mom still made them lunch. There was still laughter in the house. But underneath it all, there was now this quiet awareness that life was fragile.

My mom never showed her worry in front of Jason, but I could sense it in her. It was there beneath the surface of the day.

What struck me most was that Jason himself seemed largely untouched emotionally by what was happening. He was still just a little boy. He still wanted to play, laugh, explore, and enjoy the moment he was in. He did not seem consumed by fear or caught in thoughts about the future. He simply continued being himself.

And somehow, in the middle of all that uncertainty, my mom and Jason continued bringing joy to one another. At least in those moments, that was enough.

As time went on, Jason came over fewer and fewer times. And when he did, I could see the sadness quietly sitting in my mother’s eyes. She spent more time at her Buddha house during that period. I believe, deep down, she knew what was coming. But even with that awareness, she stayed present with him while he was there. She did not pull away from him emotionally because of the pain that was coming later. She continued caring for him, listening to him, feeding him, and sharing those simple moments together.

A few months later, Jason passed away.

My mom placed a picture of him in her Buddha house as a way of honoring his life and keeping his memory close to her heart. Of course she cried over his passing, but there was also a kind of acceptance in her sadness. Not coldness or detachment, but an understanding that his time in this life had simply been very short.

What stayed with her most was not only the grief of losing him, but also the gratitude that she had been able to share part of his journey while he was here. And even though his life was brief, it still held laughter, playfulness, connection, and love. In its own way, it was still a complete life.

As I reflect, I think my mom understood that acceptance does not mean we stop loving, stop caring, or stop feeling sadness. If anything, it may allow us to love more honestly. She knew Jason’s life might be short, yet she stayed fully present with him while he was here. She accepted the uncertainty, the grief, and eventually even his passing, while still allowing herself to experience the joy of loving him along the way.

I used to think acceptance meant agreeing with something, liking it, or somehow becoming unaffected by it. But watching my mother during that period showed me something very different.

Acceptance did not remove her sadness.

It did not make the situation fair.

It did not make her emotionally detached or stop her from grieving.

What it seemed to do was allow her to remain open to life exactly as it was unfolding, instead of emotionally fighting against a reality she could not change.

I think many of us spend a great deal of our lives resisting reality. We resist aging, loss, uncertainty, endings, disappointment, illness, and even change itself. Part of us keeps saying, “This should not be happening.” But life continues moving anyway.

My mom seemed to understand something quieter. That acceptance is not surrendering to life in a hopeless way, but participating in it fully, even when parts of it hurt.

Maybe that is why she could still laugh with Jason, still make him lunch, still enjoy hearing the boys play together, even while carrying the awareness that his life might be coming to an end.

She was not denying reality.

She was allowing reality to be real.

Watching my mother during that period taught me that acceptance is not something reserved only for death or tragedy. Life asks for acceptance in countless ways throughout our lives, sometimes through loss, sometimes through change, and sometimes through the sudden realization that illness, injury, or changes within our bodies can alter not only our physical abilities, but also how we see ourselves and the future we imagined.

I was reminded of this again a little over a year ago through an unexpected struggle involving my trumpet playing.

I was having major dental issues that unexpectedly affected my embouchure and my ability to play the trumpet.

It began when the anchor tooth for a bridge in my upper left quadrant broke. Around the same time, I also developed a pretty serious infection in my lower right quadrant. Between the pain, the swelling, and the risk of things getting worse, I felt I had no choice but to finally deal with it.

After researching different dentists, I chose one who came highly recommended. Unfortunately, fully restoring everything the ideal way was far beyond my budget.

The first step was dealing with the infection, which was fairly severe, so I went on antibiotics. Once the infection cleared up, I had to have three teeth extracted in the upper left quadrant and one tooth removed in the lower right.

Because I hope to eventually get implants, bone grafts were done to help preserve the bone and keep the area strong while it healed.

During that period, I stopped playing trumpet for a while so everything could heal properly.

After several weeks with the missing teeth, I had to decide what to do next. Financially, my options were limited. A new bridge was not really possible because there was no longer enough structure to anchor it to.

After discussing things with the dentist, I decided on a removable partial for the upper left side since it was the least expensive option.

When it was finally ready, I went in to have it fitted.

Technically, it fit reasonably well, but the moment I put it in, it felt like a large foreign object in my mouth. It snapped into place on the upper left side, connected across the roof of my mouth with an acrylic plate, and anchored again on the upper right side.

Immediately, I noticed I had developed a slight lisp, and the entire thing felt uncomfortable and unnatural. The dentist assured me this was normal and said I would eventually adjust to it.

I took it home and tried wearing it for the next couple of weeks.

During that time, I noticed that not only did my speech feel different, but eating became awkward and messy. Food constantly got trapped between the acrylic palate and the roof of my mouth.

But what affected me most was what it did to my trumpet playing.

Playing with the partial in completely changed the airflow and sensation inside my mouth. Everything felt disrupted. The coordination I had developed over decades suddenly no longer felt reliable.

Ironically, I could play somewhat better with the partial removed, but then the missing teeth created a different set of problems with airflow and support.

My playing became shaky. My flexibility, range, and endurance all suffered dramatically.

More than anything, it affected me emotionally. Trumpet playing had been part of my identity for most of my life, and suddenly something that once felt natural no longer did. I kept wondering:

What happens if I get called for a gig?

What if I cannot play the way I used to?

One thing that has helped me over the years is teaching trumpet. Having to constantly explain and demonstrate the fundamentals to students has kept those basics fresh in my own mind and body. So when I begin having problems with things like attacks, flexibility, endurance, range, tone, air support, or consistency, I usually have a pretty good sense of what needs attention and what I need to work on to get myself back on track.

I know the long tones I need to practice. I know the flexibility exercises that help reconnect everything. I know when I need to slow things down, focus on airflow, rebuild coordination, or simply rest and let the muscles recover. The foundation is still there because I have spent so many years returning to it, both for myself and while helping students work through their own struggles.

But this situation felt different.

It was not simply a matter of getting “back in shape” on the trumpet. The physical structure inside my mouth had changed. The airflow felt different. The balance and coordination I had relied on for decades no longer responded the same way.

I had to slow everything down and return to the fundamentals with a different level of patience and awareness. Airflow, attacks, flexibility, tone, endurance, relaxation, and coordination… I found myself carefully rebuilding each piece step by step.

Even then, things still were not working the way they used to. I was not the same player I had been before all of this started.

All I could really do was keep working at it patiently, trying not to force things or become emotionally frustrated every time something did not respond the way I wanted it to. I had to learn how to relax and not let my fear, tension, or overthinking interfere with the actual process of playing.

In many ways, it felt less like fixing a problem and more like relearning how to play all over again.

One day, I got a call from a friend of mine who had recently started playing trumpet again after retiring from his job. He had joined a few community bands as a way to improve his playing and strengthen his music reading.

It was during the summer, and one of the community concert bands he had joined was very small. In fact, he was the only trumpet player. A concert was coming up in about three weeks, and he asked if I would be willing to play alongside him to help support the section.

I told him yes, but I also explained everything that had been going on with my embouchure and dental situation. I told him honestly that I was nowhere near playing at 100%.

The plan was simple. I would attend one rehearsal, and then the following Thursday I would play the concert.

When I went to the rehearsal, I immediately realized how much I was still struggling. Reading the music was not the problem. Mentally, I knew exactly what I wanted to do. But physically, what came out of the bell of the trumpet did not match what I was hearing in my head.

The connection between my thoughts, my body, and the sound was no longer responding the way it had for most of my life.

My attacks felt inconsistent. Notes missed their center. Flexibility felt unstable. Simple passages that normally would not concern me suddenly felt unpredictable. It was frustrating because internally I still knew how I wanted to play, but my body was no longer cooperating in the same way.

The day before the concert, I called my dentist and explained what was happening. I asked him if there was any way he could cut off the large acrylic section of the partial denture that covered the roof of my mouth and connected across to the other side. That piece seemed to be interfering with my airflow and changing the internal space inside my mouth too drastically for me to play comfortably.

He agreed to do it, but wanted me to know that if it did not work out, I would need an entirely new partial made, which would cost another $2,500.

The next morning, I went into the office and he cut that entire palate section off. The partial still snapped securely into place without needing adhesive, but now the roof of my mouth was open and free.

I had brought my trumpet with me to the dentist so I could check right away how it would feel. I put the horn to my lips and played a few notes.

Immediately, I thought:

“This feels much better.”

Not perfect. Not like before. But better.

That evening, I played the concert.

I was still not playing the way I used to, but compared to the rehearsal the week before, it felt like a major step forward. For the first time since all of this had started, I finally felt like I might actually be heading back in the right direction.

Since then, I have played many more gigs. Some have felt okay. Some have felt terrible. None of them have felt truly great yet, at least not compared to how things once felt before all of this happened. But little by little, I do feel progress happening.

What I have realized through this experience is that I cannot keep fighting the reality of where I currently am as a player. The physical changes inside my mouth are real. The sensations and coordination are different. In many ways, I am still adapting to a new version of playing that my mind and body are learning together in real time.

At first, part of me wanted everything to go back to exactly the way it used to be. I kept comparing every note, every rehearsal, and every performance to some earlier version of myself. But the more I did that, the more tension, frustration, and fear seemed to interfere with the actual process of playing.

So in a strange way, this experience began teaching me something about acceptance.

Not acceptance as giving up.

Not lowering standards.

Not pretending things are fine when they are difficult.

But acceptance as learning to work honestly with the reality that is in front of me instead of constantly fighting against it internally.

I am still in the middle of this process. My playing is not back to where it once was, and honestly, I do not know if it ever fully will be. Some days feel encouraging, while others remind me how much has changed. But little by little, I am learning to stop fighting the fact that this journey is still unfolding.

I have not stopped taking gigs because of these changes. If anything, continuing to play has become part of the process itself. Every performance now feels less about proving something and more about learning, adjusting, listening, and staying present with where I am today rather than where I wish I still was.

As I think about both of these experiences with acceptance, I feel humbled by how differently it can appear in a life. One came through watching a little boy face something no child should ever have to face, and watching my mother love him enough to stay fully present through all of it. The other came through something far more personal and ordinary: dental work, physical change, and a struggling embouchure.

Yet in both, the invitation felt strangely similar.

Stop fighting what is. Stay open. Stay present.

Maybe acceptance is not about holding on to who we once were, but learning how to stay fully present with who we are becoming.