Exams never made me break out in a nervous sweat with tears threatening to ruin my already-trembling façade — but this one did. Even booking my piano exam reduced me to a blubbering mess of anxiety.

I feel permanently scarred inside churches — no longer admiring their beauty because, over the years, I have received such terrible marks from examiners hiding behind the stained-glass partitions. Despite being 15 — too old, too cool to be frightened — I remember trembling inside the bathroom stalls before my tests. I wished I never had to play in front of others.

But this time, after booking my Level 8 Royal Conservatory of Music piano exam, I went back to my normal routine. A little practice here, a little practice there. And then it happened.

My trusty, 10-year-old electric piano gave out. Middle C started to sound like an F-sharp and all other keys sounded like they were a fourth above their natural tone. Thankfully, my precious, boredom-saving buttons still worked. I could still change my piano’s settings from “piano” to “harpsichord .” I admit, it was a lot of fun banging on my wacky keys. Each note bonged like the sound on children’s TV shows when a character repeatedly runs into a wall.

Goofiness aside, I had to get my act together. I hated practicing but I really wanted a good mark. When I told my father what had happened to my piano, he only glared at me with disappointment, “When I was your age, I learned to be resourceful.”

Hmm. I had a broken piano, an exam coming up in a few months and a father who refused to buy me a new piano because he wanted to teach me a “life lesson”. I finally came upon a decision: I’d practice at school.

Going to a private school had to have its benefits, so I looked for a place to play. The school had many pianos but only a few in tune. Within a few days of searching, my piano books, my artistic best friend and I headed off to a music room at every available opportunity.

I loved finding new pianos in hidden corners of the school and I laughed at the dusty old historic pianos. They really had character. I spent hours in those music rooms while my friend honed her art skills in sketching and drawing. She suffered through my annoying, repetitive scales while I looked over my shoulder once in a while and admired her work. Not only did I become a better musician, but I also managed to gain a few subpar skills as an art critic.

As my exam drew close, all the music teachers knew to look for me in the piano rooms during recess, after school and late on Fridays. In anticipation of my assessment, one of my music teachers let me perform for her as a mini practice exam. To my surprise, she was greatly impressed.

Within a few months I went from not caring about my playing to feeling actually, maybe, kind of proud of my work. And over countless hours spent in my favorite, soundproof music room, I discovered that behind the piano, I could become anyone. Talking to other people never came easy to me, but I was able to express myself through music. I became overjoyed. It was like I had developed a sixth sense, one that only musicians could understand.

When I played, my worries about what others thought of me and how I viewed myself merged to reveal who I really am. All my adolescent musings made me feel like I was in a cage, but music gave me the key. Sitting behind a piano and creating music combined the movement of my body and the inner workings of my heart.

Music had never been the love of my life but that was changing. I loved the idea of being on a stage and creating something for others to enjoy and remember. Actually, it wasn’t a something, but rather a feeling that the audience would carry outside into a world where music wasn’t the only thing that people cared for.

When the time came to play in front of an examiner, instead of fearing my judge, I feared nothing but being unable to represent all my hard work. All the anxiety I had about going up on stage dimmed, and when the lights went on, all I could think about was the marvellous journey I’d had to get here. Trilling the keys reminded me of when I’d spent nearly two hours alone in a music room, more content than I had been anywhere else. Playing the melody reminded me of the bittersweet music experiences of past years.

Many days later, I received my mark. Not only did I earn a rarely mentioned “well done” and an 82 per cent, I had rewritten what music meant to me.

Now whenever I get caught up in the daily struggle, I remember the hard work that it took to reach my goal. Whenever I feel discouraged, I never forget to look at the gleaming keys of my new upright piano. As my father always says, some lessons are just learned the hard way.

Life is difficult.

What do you think about life? Maybe most people say that life is difficult. But life is no longer difficult once we truly understand and accept it. Most people do not fully see this truth. Instead, they complain about their problems and difficulties as if life should be easy. It seems to them that their difficulties represent a special kind of suffering especially forced upon them or their families, their class, or even their nation.

What makes life difficult is that the process of facing and solving problems is a painful one. Problems, depending on their nature, cause us sadness or loneliness or regret or anger or fear. These are uncomfortable feelings, often as painful as any kind of physical pain. And since life causes an endless series of problems, life is always difficult and is full of pain as well as joy.

Yet, it is in this whole process of solving problems that life has its meaning.

Problems are the serious test that tells success from failure. When we desire to encourage the growth of the human spirit, we encourage the human ability to solve problems, just as in school we set problems for our children to solve. It is through the pain of meeting and working out problems that we learn. As Benjamin Franklin said, “Those things that hurt instruct.” It is for this reason that wise people learn not to fear but to welcome the pain of problems.

Philosophers have a bad reputation for expressing themselves in a dry and boring way. The ideals for most philosophical writing are precision, clarity, and the sort of conceptual analysis that leaves no hair un-split.

There is nothing wrong with clarity, precision, and the like — but this isn’t the only way to do philosophy. Outside academic journals, abstract philosophical ideas are often expressed through literature, cinema, and song. There’s nothing that grabs attention like a good story, and there are some great philosophical stories that delight and engage, rather than putting the reader to sleep.

One of the great things about this is that, unlike formal philosophy, which tries to be very clear, stories don’t wear their meanings on their sleeve — they require interpretation, and often express conflicting ideas for the reader to wrestle with.

Consider what philosophers call the metaphysics (形而上学) of race — an area of philosophy that explorers the question of whether or not race is real. There are three main positions that you can take on these questions. You might think that a person’s race is written in their genes (a position known as “biological realism”). Or you might think of race as socially real, like days of the week or currencies (“social constructionism”). Finally, you might think that races are unreal — that they’re more like leprechauns (一种魔法精灵) than they are like Thursdays or dollars (“anti-realism”).

A great example of a story with social constructionist taking on race is George Schuyler’s novel Black No More. In the book, a Black scientist named Crookman invents a procedure that makes Black people visually indistinguishable from Whites. Thousands of African Americans flock to Crookman’s Black No More clinics and pay him their hard-earned cash to undergo the procedure. White racists can no longer distinguish those people who are “really” White from those who merely appear to be White. In a final episode, Crookman discovers that new Whites are actually a whiter shade of pale than those who were born that way, which kicks off a trend of sunbathing to darken one’s skin-darkening it so as to look more While.

Philosophically rich stories like this bring more technical works to life. They are stories to think with.