When I look back at this semester, I can honestly say that MMS 172 was the most taxing course I took. And I’ve learned that this is often how I feel whenever I take a class under Prof. Librero. It’s not that the requirements are unbearable -- it’s that I always feel compelled to push myself further, to make my work thoughtful, intentional, and hopefully, impressive enough to reflect the effort I put into it. That pressure can be exhausting, but I also know it comes from a good place. I don’t want to do things halfway, especially not in a subject that asks me to create something as personal and as vulnerable as sound.

It isn't easy to teach and care about others as one might think. It requires time and energy, which are resources that once spent, we can't get back. I’ve come to think about music in that same light. People say that it's timeless. And in a sense, it is -- the songs outlast the hours that made them. But what makes them timeless is the very opposite of eternity: it’s the fleeting, unrepeatable labor of a person choosing to give their effort, their attention, their care. That is what I’ve come to understand about music in this course. Its permanence is built on sacrifice. Yes, people often say that everything has already been done, and that there’s nothing new under the sun. But there is still only one of you. The “timelessness” of art is not about originality in the abstract; it’s about the irreplaceable imprint of the person behind it.

Unless you choose to act on that uniqueness, to create something out of it, you withhold from the world a perspective that could only have come from you. In that sense, not creating is its own kind of selfishness, not because the world is entitled to our art, but because expression is one of the ways we make sense of the world and of ourselves, and expression is part of our responsibility as human beings.

People are born inventors, translators of experience, and MMS 172 reminded me of that. Even in moments of exhaustion, frustration, or self-doubt, the act of producing something was its own form of proof. I’ve started to see creation not only as a privilege but as a duty.

Even in fields far from music -- statistics and space science -- sound has the power to translate data and make knowledge more human. I can imagine myself using these skills to build projects that combine information with sound. There is a bridge between logic and feeling, and audio is one of the most effective ways to cross it.

At the same time, audio remains personal to me. I still want to make it as an artist; creating works that reflect how I see life and inviting others to see it too. Music may not be my main path right now, but it will always be one of my languages, one of the ways I process the world and prove to myself that I was here: that I lived, thought, and felt enough to make it tangible.

It’s underrated how people are able to create something straight out of their heads. In drawings, in buildings, in math, in anything, really. The human mind can hold an idea that does not yet exist, and through imagination and labor, bring it into the world. That’s the essence of invention. And when I think about music in that way, it stops being about whether I hit all the technical marks. It becomes about honoring that basic, miraculous fact: that I took something from inside me and gave it form.

Okay, I realize this starts to sound a little like I’m talking about giving birth. And honestly, maybe that’s not such a bad comparison. In the end, it is about delivery: taking an intangible, unshaped idea and pushing it into the world, giving it presence, letting it exist outside of yourself. That act, small or large, is transformative, both for the creator and for anyone who experiences it.

I have immense respect for those who are able to fully actualize their thoughts. It’s one thing to imagine, to dream, to hold a vision in your head; it’s another entirely to translate that vision into reality. Watching someone do this well is inspiring because it reveals not just skill, but discipline, patience, and a deep understanding of one’s own mind.

I find it humbling, too, because it reminds me of how rare and difficult this ability truly is. Ideas are fragile and easily lost; they can vanish if not pursued with focus and care. To see someone bring theirs to life is to witness the miracle of creation in its purest form. It’s a reminder that creation is also the willingness to give pieces of yourself to the world.

Looking at my classmates’ work, I was struck by the incredible variety of approaches. Some poured themselves into podcasts, others, soundscapes, and quite a bit, like me, focused on music. Each project was different, yet they all shared the courage to put something personal and vulnerable out into the world. 

I couldn’t help but wonder why I made things so difficult for myself. Many of my classmates seemed to navigate the process with ease, producing thoughtful, polished work without overcomplicating things. 

Because of that slight regret, I felt even more paralyzed when it came time to start my own project. Seeing others move through their tasks made it harder for me to take the first step. I don’t know if they experienced the same doubts or pressures I did, but for me, it magnified the hesitation and made getting started feel heavier than it needed to.

Looking back, though, I can see that this struggle was part of how I process creation. The difficulty forced me to confront my own standards, my relationship with effort, and the kind of depth I bring to work when I finally do start.

I also carry a sense of guilt. I have a close-knit group of friends in this course, and all of them produced exceptional work. During crunch time, I went almost completely silent, consumed by my own project and unable to offer the feedback and encouragement they deserved. Part of it is just how I function: responding to one person feels like committing to everyone, and sometimes that pressure freezes me entirely. Balancing my own energy with being present for others proved difficult.

I admire my friends’ ability to move fluidly between collaboration and creation; for me, it’s a constant negotiation with the way I’m wired.

That’s one of the lessons I’m taking from this course: presence doesn’t always look the same.

 Sometimes it’s about showing up in the one way you can.

Of course, I feel relief now that the course is over. It was heavy, and it stretched me in ways I wasn’t always ready for. But my relief isn’t about wanting to leave audio behind. For many, this course may have felt like a series of deadlines. For me, it was never just that.

This really is the start for me. It also probably was for those who came before me, and those that are yet to share this honour. MMS 172 may be finished, but my work of creating never is.

I can never be the best in the room. If I were, I’d know I was in the wrong room. I need to be around people who can teach me, who push me to see and do things I haven’t yet mastered. That isn’t to say that those who aren’t “better” in some ways aren’t worth learning from -- everyone has something to offer, a perspective, a skill, or an insight that can expand my understanding. 

Wisdom isn’t just about years lived, and experience alone doesn’t give anyone authority over someone else. Authority, in that sense, comes not from age or status, but from the ability to guide and to do so with humility.

Ultimately, I believe that it all comes down to love, and then comes consideration. Everything we do is a reflection of how much, or how little, we take things into account. There are people with lives, perspectives, and worlds I may never fully understand, but can still respect. 

I made a promise to myself that I will someday share the same stage as my idols. This isn’t the most excited I’ll ever feel. I haven’t yet made the music that will make me most proud, and I haven’t yet met all the people who will truly love and understand me.

Like I always say... peak is relative. I'm never truly done.