My Fear Story

The time that I was most afraid

When I auditioned for music school, I was 32, already had a BA, already had 10 years of experience as a professional musician. I was auditioning to join the Music Education program at Georgia State University, and I had to pick an instrument. I could have chosen voice, which would have been the safer, obvious route for a future choral director. Instead I chose piano.

I’d had a long-standing battle with my ability to play the piano up to that point. Some of that came about from my haphazard instruction: I had been a mediocre music student. I also had massive stage-fright and anxiety, especially around playing the piano.

So choosing the piano meant pointing my boat directly into the massive swell. Doing the thing that scared me most.

I wasn’t taking any chances. I spent one year preparing the audition, memorizing four difficult pieces. The week before the date, I was more afraid than I’d ever been in my life.

Please understand: I’d already been through the miscarriage of my unborn child, afraid of losing him, and afraid for the safety of my wife. I’d already driven on a logging road in Western Oregon with my father and my sister, where one wrong move on a one-lane road could send us hurtling down a thousand-foot embankment. I’d been in Tae-Kwon-Do sparring matches, and at the bedside of my dying Mom. I’d been scared before.

Why was this the scariest day of my life?

Maybe because it had more to do with all the imaginary things I was scared of than any reality I could deal with. When I’m in a crisis, I can act. I can do something, even if it’s a small thing.

For this audition, I’d already done everything I could: killed myself for a year to memorize four hard pieces, and now there wasn’t anything else to do but wait, to go in there, and be judged. I wanted so desperately to perform at my best ability, and I was terrified, TERRIFIED, that I would fail and not be seen and heard as capable.

How I would do in that moment? Out of my present control. How they would judge me? Out of my control. I was afraid, and there was nothing I could do about it.

I felt like I was falling down an elevator shaft that went on for miles, never knowing when I was going to hit, begging for the end of it, and knowing that the end of it was going to hurt.

It was the only time in my life that I seriously considered suicide. Not for any other reason than I just wanted the pain and terror to be over. I couldn’t bear every waking moment feeling like absolute terrified garbage.

I had the good sense to call a friend, a horn player who had been through this kind of thing many times before. She talked me off the figurative ledge, got me through the week. Reminded me how to think about what was happening, and what was coming.

The week ended. I got in the room. I performed.

I made mistakes.

I passed the audition.

On that day, I realized, maybe for the first time, that there’s such a thing as “good enough,” and it doesn’t always have to be “good.” I had used the audition as a way of judging myself against the highest possible professional standard, rather than understanding it as an entry point into a process where I would be able to improve. I failed at the first goal, and succeeded at the second.

I’ve had many anxious moments since, some severe. But none like that, never like that.

I had to go through that terrifying experience to begin to understand how I was misreading it, and maybe making music in general. I still suffer from stage fright. I even felt awful before putting on a recital for my piano studio, where I didn’t even play! Probably because so many elements were out of my control.

This is the lesson for me.

To manage the anxiety, recognize what triggers it: a lack of control. Moderate the situation to control as much as is necessary, and let go of the rest. Tolerate the feeling and recognize it for the experience that it is. Thank the feeling for keeping me grounded, because it often acts as a signal that there are things I have yet to address.

I’m going to be doing a series on Fear Stories, and I want yours! I’ll change your name and relay the story here, so we can all see what we’re afraid of. Then none of us has to be alone!

Please send your story to me at adam@acole.net.