At the very first lesson, my student barely came up to my shoulders. Next thing I know, he's a head taller and suddenly I'm the one looking up at him.

The years not only brought him height but obligations, due to that mandatory conditioning period known as high school.

More activities and homework, less time at the keyboard.

His mother approached me, he had recently started band and it was proving to be a massive drain on his already scarce timetable (on some weekends he had 12-hour rehearsals).

She wondered if it would be okay to pause lessons for 3 months.

What would you do in this situation?

The key is resistance. It's the main topic of Steven Pressfield's magisterial The War of Art, the book that many consider the professional artist's instruction manual on how to overcome this hidden force.

What makes resistance so tricky is that it appears in many different forms, disguised as something like an innocuous conversation or a project as grand as a life's mission.

But here's the thing - you recognize it immediately.

You're aware of the correct course of action, but you'd rather not take it since the idea of it makes your stomach turn. All the while that little devil on your shoulder is pointing you towards the opposite direction, ceaselessly whispering in your ears and offering you an instant escape hatch.

Turning tail would be a huge mistake. Resistance is like a superhuman virus, disregard it for a single second and it replicates beyond measure like rabbits on Viagra.

So even though that fire-colored, two-horned conman was begging me to give in, the angel sitting on my other shoulder drowned him out. She reminded me of all the repercussions I had already experienced, warned me to not repeat those same mistakes.

I thought about the worst case scenario, what if her kid never came back after the break? 3 months of income down the drain for nothing.

But it wasn't just about the money, the truth is that this student had been barely practicing for quite a while. It prompted me to repeatedly ask him if he wanted to continue with lessons. Though it warmed my heart that the answer was yes every time, I told him I didn't see the point when he wasn't putting in the effort.

Holding up lessons for a student who wasn't committed to even a bare minimum of exertion would have piled on the resentment, most likely irreparably damaging the professional relationship I had with my client (I still teach her other son).

So I knew what the right answer was, because I really didn't want to say it:

"I'm not sure that's a good idea."

It was the right decision because I had everyone's best interests in mind. It wasn't me against them, it was about us. And when I read between the lines, they were both waiting for me to make the call.

So I gently suggested the next week should be his last and her expression told me she understood. We ended the talk with a sense of relief.

The next week I gifted him a copy of Calvin and Hobbes, my favorite comic book. Over the years, the brilliant depictions of the boredom of school and wonder of everyday life have provided me with a reliable source of amusement and comfort.

I have 3 collections on the coffee table in the piano room, secretly hoping anyone sitting on the couch will pick one up and become a new fan. My student would often look through the pages while waiting for his brother's lesson to conclude. He would never fail to chuckle silently and I would constantly catch him smirking out of my eye's corner.

What I told him at that final lesson was that life didn't get in his way, he had allowed it to. He was getting busier but he stopped practicing because it was his choice. After all, he didn't have a problem making the time for his video games.

But what I hope he remembers most of all is this, "you've got to work hard, even for all the things you enjoy in life."

Everything must be earned.

Cheers.