Braveish
My first piano recital at age 48, a lesson in overcoming panic
by Nanda Reddy
Buzzing ears. Cotton wool in my mouth. Tingling, tight jaw. Pressure bursting from my head. This is how my body hijacked me as I approached the recital hall. Every inch of skin throbbed out my heartbeat. My palms, freezing cold, prickled with sweat even though I’d coated them in clinical-strenght antiperspirant. I could hear my footsteps, but I couldn’t feel the floor.
The room was full of fidgety children and smiling grandparents. And a piano loomed in the center. Taking a seat, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt such panic.
I’ve always wanted to play the piano. Always! So, of course, when my boys were young, I signed them up for lessons, grateful that my husband’s job allowed us the means. Sticker charts and small prizes encouraged them to practice until skill and their love of the instrument was motivation enough. Now, in their teens, they both play beautifully. I feel genuine pride and joy hearing them play, but in my depths, I feel envy, too.
At my son’s previous recital, several older adults bravely blundered through pieces, inspiring me. I thought, why not me? Piano lessons always seemed a luxury reserved for music prodigies or rich kids. In my middle age, I have the funds, and since research says music lessons can offset dementia, I’m motivated. (I harbor an irrational fear of dementia.)
From day one, hammering out a piece akin to Mary Had A Little Lamb, I made it clear to my instructor: I had no desire to perform. But, piano teachers are instruments of torture, and mine convinced me to test my bravery. After all, what was I teaching my children by chickening out?
So there I was, living by example and scared sh*tless.
Breathe, I told myself. It’s no big deal. No one cares if you screw up. But, who among us, wants to face plant, even if it doesn’t matter?
A five year old played the exact piece I’d play later, Silent Night. He lumbered through, and I felt like a terrible terrible person because I was grateful he hadn’t showed me up.
My insides grew drier and my outsides grew wetter as my turn approached. And then, there I was, standing, moving toward the instrument.
I blanked, but my fingers held memory. Halfway through, amazed that I was doing okay, I fumbled. But I finished, and I learned I could push past fear.
Apart from teaching my kids that “you’re never too old,” I taught myself I can push past the panic of public performance. It’s something I need to get comfortable with as I get closer to publishing my novel and as I market myself. In about a year, I’ll have to do readings and talk about my book in front of strangers. I might be a hot, sweaty mess, but I’m hoping I’ll feel braver then.
