Ben Beshay - @violaworksbyben - JX Studio

My name is Benjamin Beshay

There was a time when everything I felt stayed trapped inside me—like standing in a vast, silent space where the air feels heavy and every unspoken thought echoes but never escapes. I didn’t know how to shape those thoughts into words, or even where to begin. I just carried them. Somehow, before I fully understood it, the viola became that outlet—a place where I could turn feeling into sound, where something internal and undefined could finally take shape. It gave me a way to be heard without ever needing to speak.

My name is Benjamin Beshay, and I am a fifteen-year-old violist from Flower Mound, Texas. I have been playing the viola for four years, and in that time, it has grown from something unfamiliar into the center of my life. I was first inspired to play the viola by by my cousins, who were already musicians. Watching them made music feel alive—like something meaningful and expressive that I wanted to be a part of. But when I began learning the viola myself, the reality was far more difficult than I expected.

It builds quietly, through patience, repetition, frustration, and persistence.

In the beginning, almost everything felt like an absolute struggle. Producing a consistent, resonant sound was challenging, and staying in tune felt uncertain and unstable. Practicing often felt annoying, like I was circling the same problems without actually solving them. One of the hardest challenges I faced was consistency, not just in my playing, but in my mindset. There were days when I felt focused and motivated, and others where it felt like nothing I was doing was working. Progress didn’t feel steady or predictable. It felt uneven, and at times, almost nonexistent. Learning to push through those moments—especially when improvement wasn’t visible, was something I had to develop over time, and it remains a challenge I continue to face.

What kept me going was not immediate success, but a growing understanding that music meant something deeper. Even when my playing wasn’t where I wanted it to be, I felt connected to it in a way I couldn’t explain. Over time, I began to realize that growth in music is rarely obvious in the moment. It builds quietly, through patience, repetition, frustration, and persistence. The progress that feels invisible is often the most important. Eventually, those small, unnoticed changes began to take shape in more visible ways.

I was accepted into the Texas Music Educators Association All-State Symphony Orchestra and placed first in my region for three consecutive years. I became a prizewinner in multiple competitions and had the opportunity to make my solo debut with orchestra—an experience that meant far more than just performing, because it represented everything I had worked through to reach that point. More recently, I was accepted into the National Youth Orchestra of the United States of America program for this summer, an opportunity that feels like another step forward in a journey that has never been easy, but has always been meaningful.

the moments that feel the most discouraging are often the ones that shape you the most.

Even now, nothing about this process feels finished. I still struggle with consistency, intonation, and physical tension. I still have practice days where I feel stuck—where I question whether I am truly improving. But I have learned that those moments are not setbacks; they are part of the process itself. In many ways, the challenges have not disappeared—they have simply evolved, and I have grown alongside them. If there is anything I hope others can take from my experience, it is that progress does not always look the way you expect it to. It is often slow, uneven, and difficult to recognize while it is happening. But the moments that feel the most discouraging are often the ones that shape you the most. Learning to stay patient, to continue working even without immediate results, is what allows that quiet progress to eventually become something real.