I think my title is a bit of a click bait considering playing my ukulele hasn’t actually saved my life, but it may as well have.
I bought my first ukulele as a graduation present to myself. My distant relatives gave me some Visa gift cards, so I hopped onto Amazon and purchased the first one I saw. I want to say it was about $40.00 including shipping and the case and all. I anxiously awaited its arrival, and finally it came, ironically enough on the most perfect day possible.
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I had a few friends play, and I always opened my eyes in amazement begging them to teach me, nonetheless, I failed miserably. I played flute back in middle school but my sense of rhythm was just a little off. However, one of my best friends used to send me videos of herself jamming out to Twenty One Pilots. She even sang “I’m Yours” by Jason Mraz to me over FaceTime. That being said, I fell in love with how much passion she had for the instrument and I craved to learn.
This friend of mine was leaving for a sleep-away camp for about a month. No phone, no communication with me, no nothing. It was a pretty new friendship, but missing her was extremely painful regardless. She was who I texted every morning, my biggest fan, my smile I always wanted to see. Bigger than all, when I dealt with different funks and slumps having to do with my depression and anxiety she was there.
Speaking of, during the summer when I had less of schedule and more time to spend alone in my bed with my cellphone glued to my face my depression would get significantly worse. Antidepressants are a beautiful thing, but it seemed something was always missing.
The day my friend left for camp, right as she sent her last text message, exchanging “I love you’s” a medium-sized rectangular box arrived at the door to my home. I lugged it down into my basement, taking about 300 pictures with it so she could see my face filled with happiness when she finally got her phone back. I tuned the strings, well attempted, after watching about 30 youtube tutorials. I hopped onto Ukutabs and picked out her favorite songs, that I wanted to play for her when she got home.
Every time I felt a little anxious I picked up the little piece of wood and strings and tried to remember that smile. My fingers were callusing, and my strumming was slowly but surely getting a little better. One of my other friends gifted me a binder full of notes and tips for my birthday, and I was ecstatic.
Every night I would film myself play the same song, “Can’t Help Falling In Love”. Seeing the progression kept me busy and was all sorts of euphoric. I began sending my friend our favorite Troye Sivan songs and chords in letters and I gushed to her all about how happy this little instrument was making me and how I couldn’t wait to show her all I had learned.
When she finally came home, we spent hours in my basement playing and singing together in before I was moving into college. At school, nearly half of the friends I made knew how to play, and I even taught others. The ukulele almost pushed me out of my shell, made me a less anxious person, and blossomed one of the best friendships of my life.
I may not be any Grace Vanderwall, but the thing sure makes me happy.
