Facing Fear (And Living to Tell About It)

“Do one thing every day that scares you,” recommended Eleanor Roosevelt. While this quote has encouraged at least one woman to dive with sharks and swing from a trapeze, it also presents us with the opportunity to do the more mundane things in life without worrying about failure.

It is in facing fear that we are successful—our fear to engage in a difficult conversation, attempt a new task, deliver a speech, or, in my case, participate in a piano recital in my thirties.

I was taking piano lessons (for the first time ever) to support my daughter who, at 9, was learning much faster. I tried to convince our teacher that I should not be in the recital. I didn’t want to do it and the rest of the participants were children, so I really didn’t belong. He was relentless. And I knew I couldn’t opt out without setting a bad example for my daughter.

So I did it.

In front of strangers, this would have been difficult. Considering it was in front of my husband, daughter, son, and parents, as well as my daughter’s father (my ex-husband), step-mother, paternal grandmother, and second grade teacher and his wife, it was especially daunting.

The morning of the recital I was incredibly anxious. I knew how to play my songs but only when calm and focused. When my name was called I sauntered up almost laughing, exaggerating the fact that I was out of place. I stepped onto the stage, sat on the piano bench, and opened my music book. My heart was racing with adrenaline but at least I hadn’t tripped or struggled to find my dog-eared pages. So far, so good. I took a deep breath and told myself this was not a big deal. I could do this. I played the first measure of the first song. And the next.

And then I choked.

As anxiety took charge, I forgot how to read the notes and couldn’t remember where to put my fingers. With the acute awareness that nearly 100 people were watching me, I became even more flustered. The silence was excruciating. My face burned in embarrassment. I hoped to spontaneously combust or time travel. But there I sat—the focal point of all attention in the recital hall.

There was only one way out of the situation: to complete my songs. And so I did.

I would like to say that I glided through the remainder of my music. But I didn’t. It was choppy—sometimes fluid and other times interrupted by a misplayed note or silence. I couldn’t wait to get off that stage.

After it was over, I felt the event was a disaster. A huge mistake. I judged myself a total failure. That was before I adopted Eleanor’s philosophy. “Nothing alive can stand still, it goes forward or back. Life is interesting only as long as it is a process of growth. . . ”

Now I look back and see my performance as daring. I knew I might not play well and I was afraid. But I did it anyway. And from it, I grew. Facing fear is essential to who I am as a leader and a coach. I strive to be someone who takes risks, admits shortcomings, and learns from experiences. And, for better are worse, these traits are more important to me than being a good piano player.