Sometimes you have to play a long time to be able to play like

The words of Miles Davis—“Sometimes you have to play a long time to be able to play like yourself.”—are as much about life as they are about music. They speak to the paradox of mastery: that in order to find one’s true voice, one must first wander through the voices of others. A young musician begins by imitating, by borrowing the sounds of teachers, of idols, of traditions. But Davis, a giant of jazz, reminds us that the highest goal is not imitation, but authenticity. To play like yourself is to discover the sound that no one else can produce—the sound born of your own soul.

The ancients understood this path well. In the schools of Greece, a young philosopher first learned the teachings of Plato or Aristotle. In the guilds of medieval Europe, the apprentice first copied the work of the master. Only after long years of discipline did the student’s own style emerge, unique yet grounded in what came before. Davis’s words echo this eternal truth: the road to authenticity is paved with patience, endurance, and time. To play like yourself is not the starting point, but the summit.

Consider Davis’s own life. In his early years, he studied under the great Charlie Parker, absorbing the furious speed and brilliance of bebop. He played alongside others whose genius was already established, shaping himself in their shadow. Yet it was only after years of playing, experimenting, and enduring, that he began to craft his own sound: a slower, more spacious, haunting tone that became his signature. The world remembers Miles Davis not because he imitated, but because he had the courage to sound like himself. And that courage took years to earn.

History gives us other mirrors of this truth. Think of Michelangelo, who first studied the works of the ancient Greeks and Romans, chiseling marble as they did. Yet over time, his sculptures began to bear the unmistakable mark of his own vision—the David, the Pietà, the Sistine Chapel. Or consider Shakespeare, who began his writing borrowing heavily from older tales, yet refined them until his voice became singular, immortal. Genius is not born whole; it is carved from long practice until it speaks in its own tongue.

Beloved listener, the meaning is clear: to find yourself, you must first lose yourself in the labor of practice. Do not despair if in your youth you sound like others, write like others, or walk in the shadow of greater names. This is not failure, but the preparation for discovery. The day will come when, through time and trial, you will shed the borrowed garments and stand clothed in your own voice, unshakable and true.

The lesson for our lives is profound: authenticity requires patience. Whether you are an artist, a worker, a leader, or a dreamer, know that your true strength may not appear quickly. Endure the long years of learning. Honor the discipline of practice. Let every day of imitation, every effort of training, sharpen the tool of your soul. And when the moment arrives, when you finally “play like yourself,” the world will recognize the sound of something it has never heard before—you.

Practical wisdom calls us to action: practice your craft, whatever it may be, without rushing to define yourself too soon. Do not fear the long journey, for it is shaping you in ways unseen. Seek inspiration from others, but do not remain their echo forever. The greatest gift you can give to the world is the sound of your own voice, the work of your own hands, the truth of your own spirit.

So let Miles Davis’s words echo across time: “Sometimes you have to play a long time to be able to play like yourself.” Embrace the long journey. Endure the practice. Trust that through time, you will find the song only you were born to sing—and when you do, it will be worth all the years it took to arrive.