I was practising on the stage of the NHK Hall in Tokyo before a matinee concert with the NHK Orchestra, feeling the weight of the occasion. Little did I know, a legend was watching me. Vladimir Ashkenazy, the musician I had long admired, sat quietly in the audience, listening intently. Afterwards, he came up to me and asked, ‘Rustem, why do you need to practise so much? We just performed the concerto last night, and it went very well.’ I was taken aback. How could I explain that, despite the success of the previous evening, I was facing a far more daunting challenge? I couldn’t tell him the truth.

Imagine being a concert pianist capable of performing some of the greatest and most complex works of piano literature, and then, like a nightmare you can’t wake up from, within weeks, your ability deteriorates without warning. There is no pain, no clear cause, yet you find yourself unable to play even the most basic scale. I remember envying a 10-year-old girl who came to play for me at the time. She could do it – play scales effortlessly – while I couldn’t, not even slowly.

The first signs didn’t appear at the piano. I was at the gym, holding a dumbbell in my hand, when I noticed a strange sensation in my little finger. I couldn’t wrap it snugly around the dumbbell. It was a subtle oddness, but it was there, an awareness of my finger as if it wasn’t quite mine. Around the same time, I realised I had no control over it when washing my hair or swimming. But I dismissed it – surely it was nothing.

Then it started at the piano. One finger after another was losing coordination. They tripped over each other, tangled up like reluctant dancers, completely out of sync. As I started a recital, I felt an overwhelming realisation that I would probably not make it through the first piece. I would have to stand up, apologise to the audience, and leave the stage in the embarrassing silence.

I couldn’t even demonstrate properly to my students at the Royal Academy the excerpts from the pieces we were working on. The disbelief, confusion and humiliation I felt is hard to put into words.

Soon, I had to tell my wife that I believed I would no longer be able to earn a living as a concert pianist. I remember the tears in her eyes. She had just given birth to our second child, and I was the sole breadwinner.

Ironically, while my ability to perform was slipping away, I was spending a fortune on consultations and treatments from physiotherapists, masseurs, osteopaths, hand surgeons and other specialists. None could help. Most couldn’t even find anything wrong with me. For musicians struggling with far more common injuries such as tendinitis, the road to recovery can be long, as the doctors who truly understand musicians’ hands are few and far between.

After much searching, I was eventually diagnosed with focal dystonia, a painless neurological disorder that causes involuntary muscle contractions and disrupts the delicate connection between the brain and the fingers. It is considered by many doctors to be incurable. Some of the most illustrious performing careers have been ended by it.

American pianists Leon Fleisher and Gary Graffman are well-known examples of musicians who were forced to give up on their performing careers. It is generally less known that Canadian pianist Glenn Gould chronicled his struggle and desperate attempts to deal with the condition in his diaries four years before recording his iconic second version of Bach’s Goldberg Variations in 1981. We may never know if he fully recovered, as true to his principles he made the recording by using countless takes over the extended period of recording in April and May. He died the following year.

Focal dystonia is unique in that it’s a painless disorder, which leads even well-meaning colleagues to think that the afflicted musician has either suddenly become incompetent, had the wrong technique in the first place or is simply imagining the problem. Due to this misunderstanding, it has become a taboo subject among professional musicians affected by it, while a countless number suffer in silence, quietly battling despair.

I want to speak out, to share my experience, and let others know that recovery is possible. My breakthrough came when after a long search I managed to track down a doctor who had suffered from the condition himself in his youth. He dedicated his life to understanding and treating focal dystonia. When I met him, he reassured me that the condition wasn’t caused by my piano playing – it simply manifested itself at the piano. ‘If your job hadn’t involved using your fingers in such a refined way, you might not have even noticed the dystonia,’ he explained. The word ‘focal’ stands for ‘task specific’.

He introduced me to the concept of neuroplasticity – the brain’s remarkable capacity to adapt, which is responsible for many stroke victims’ ability to retrain their brains to regain lost control of their body. In the case of focal dystonia, however, the brain adapts in a harmful way. Stress, bereavement, a car accident or even simply performing while ill can trigger this maladaptation. In my case, I believe it was the latter that was the initial trigger. The recovery process was not quick. It involved rigorous physical exercises at and away from the piano aimed at reactivating the silent circuits, akin to stroke rehabilitation.

I am incredibly fortunate to count myself among the few musicians who have managed to recover. My new recording of music by JS Bach and his sons, released by Onyx Classics towards the end of March, is a testament to my recovery.

I first conceived the idea for this recording project as early as 2017, shortly after the release of my album of Rachmaninov’s Piano Sonatas. Then, unfortunately, illness intervened. Just a few years ago, I feared I might never play again, let alone tackle repertoire that demands the most refined finger control – delicate trills, intricate embellishments and swift, agile runs executed in a range of articulations: legato, staccato, portato.

Now that I have regained my former command of the instrument, I am eager to return to the stage and reconnect with live audiences. There is nothing quite like the exchange of energy that happens in a concert hall. I’ve already begun that journey. With my ability restored, it is now time to restore my career and bring music back to the stage.

The road to recovery has taken years of relentless hard work, discipline and patience, and often involved having to overcome despair. I want to share my story in the hope that it might help others who are suffering in silence, to let them know that the recovery is possible, even when it seems like all hope is lost. To those suffering from this condition: you are not alone. I am living proof that recovery is possible. It takes perseverance, but with time and the right approach, it can be done. Don’t give up hope.

Rustem Hayroudinoff’s new album ‘Bach & Sons’ on Onyx is available from March 28

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