🐒 A Little Monkey, A Stuffed Toy, and Something That Stayed With Me
I recently came across the story of Punch — a seven-month-old Japanese macaque living at the Ichikawa City Zoo near Tokyo — and I haven't been able to stop thinking about him since.
Punch was born in July 2025 and was abandoned by his mother, who showed no interest in raising him. The very next day, zookeepers stepped in to hand-rear him, feeding him milk from a baby bottle and taking turns caring for him around the clock. When the time came for Punch to be integrated with the rest of the troop — about 60 other macaques living together on Monkey Mountain — things didn't go smoothly. Due to the lack of a maternal figure, Punch initially struggled with socialising, showing signs of anxiety and isolation. Other monkeys were not always kind. There were shovings, scoldings, and moments where Punch was simply left alone.
But what I find most tender about Punch's story isn't the viral fame, or even the cuteness of the images. It's this detail that the zookeepers shared: after stressful encounters, Punch often returns briefly to his toy before rejoining the group — signalling gradual emotional development. KTLA 5 News He goes back to his safe place. He steadies himself. And then he tries again.
There's a quiet kind of courage in that.
🎼 What Punch Reminded Me As A Teacher
I teach piano. And in music, we talk a lot about the things you can measure — accuracy, technique, discipline, exam results, performance readiness. All of those things matter, and I don't take them lightly.
But Punch reminded me of something that sits beneath all of it.
Will this be a place where a wrong note means disappointment? Or will it be a place where a wrong note is just… part of learning?
I think about Punch coming back to his stuffed toy after a hard moment. That toy doesn't solve his problems. It doesn't teach him how to socialise or navigate the troop's hierarchy. But it gives him something to return to — something steady and safe — so that he can gather himself and try again.
I want my studio to be that for my students.
Not every repeated mistake needs immediate correction. Sometimes what a student needs is not a sharper instruction but a softer landing — a moment where they feel seen rather than evaluated. A moment where they remember that this space belongs to them too, and that they are allowed to not be perfect here.
Music is powerful precisely because it lives in the emotional body. It is not just an intellectual exercise. And when we teach music with empathy — when we hold space for the human being sitting at the instrument, not just the musician we're trying to shape — something remarkable happens. Students begin to open up. They take risks. They stop playing it safe and start playing it real. And that, honestly, is when the music begins.
🌿 Safe Spaces Are Not Soft — They Are Strong
I want to gently push back on something, because I think it sometimes gets misunderstood.
Creating a safe, empathetic learning environment doesn't mean lowering standards or avoiding honest feedback. Punch's zookeepers didn't stop encouraging him to engage with the troop. They kept gently pushing him forward. But they also made sure he had something to come back to when things got hard.
That's the balance. High expectations held with warmth. Honest feedback delivered with care. Correction offered without making a student feel small.
The zoo asked the public to "support Punch's effort rather than feel sorry for him," noting that "while Punch is scolded, he shows resilience and mental strength." NBC News I love that framing. It's not about sheltering him from difficulty — it's about making sure he's never facing difficulty entirely alone.
That's what I want for my students. Not a cushioned, challenge-free lesson. But the deep assurance that whatever happens — whether they forget their piece halfway through, whether they cry from frustration, whether they feel like they'll never get that passage right — they are not alone in this room.
🎹 Music as Comfort, Music as Belonging
Punch's little orangutan plushie went from being a simple stuffed toy to something the whole world recognised: a symbol of the fundamental need every living creature has — to feel safe, to feel connected, to belong somewhere.
Music, at its best, does exactly that. It reaches into the parts of us that words can't always find. It says: you are not alone in what you feel. It has done that for centuries, across every culture and tradition. And in a music lesson, that same power is available — not just through the pieces we play, but through the relationship between teacher and student.
That's why teaching means so much to me. Because beyond grades and techniques and exam syllabuses, I want every student who sits at my piano to know: this is a place where you are safe. This is a place where you belong.
Hang in there, Punch. And thank you for the reminder. 🐒✨
— Min Min Tay