Jennifer the Grown-up

Jennifer, a 35-year-old, contacts you. Her voice bubbles with excitement when she tells you that after twenty-five years, she wants to try music lessons again. She gives you her background:

“When I was little I loved anything to do with music—singing, dancing, making up
songs. I started piano lessons but all I heard was “Hold your hand like this—don’t forget
to count!” I couldn’t see any connection to what I loved. When I wanted to show my
teacher something I’d made up at home, she said I should use my time to practice more. I
stuck it out for a year, but it was miserable, and by the time my parents let me quit, I felt
so insecure that I stopped making music altogether. As I got older, I’d see other people
playing, and want to join in, but doubted that I’d ever be able to do it. A few months ago
I started to fool around with piano and guitar, but I really need some guidance. I so want
to do this, and think I might be ready to try lessons again!”

This sounds exciting and hopeful, and you eagerly anticipate working with Jennifer. However, when she arrives for her first lesson, she seems to be a different person than the one you spoke with on the phone—tense and unhappy, as though someone else has forced her to be there. Her eyes are red. “Is everything okay?” you ask. Jennifer’s lip begins to quiver and she bursts into tears. Between sobs, she explains, “I was so excited about doing this. But when I got to your door, all those old experiences came back and I almost went home. I don’t know what made me think this would work.”

What would you do?