Let’s just call performing and public speaking exactly what it is: being seen. As a child I did not enjoy being seen. I avoided it at all costs. Sadly, once I reached a certain age, my invisibility cloak didn’t fully cover me anymore—and let me tell you, when people noticed legs running without a body attached, there was an uproar. I clearly failed that day. My desire to melt into the background continued in elementary school. Much to my appreciation, when it came to our yearly Christmas concert, all of our Christmas songs were performed as a group where I could sing as loud as I wanted and not be noticed. Even better, all my acting roles were silent, such as portraying a sleeping sheep, a cow chewing cud, or a nanny changing baby Jesus’s diaper beside the manger. All was perfect in my not being seen world, and then I grew up.
My mom passed away when I was in my mid-thirties. We were close. She was my mom. She baked me cookies and took care of my angelic little rug rats, giving me some time to shave my Sasquatch-style lower legs. After her sudden death, I felt compelled to challenge myself, break free from the wallflower life I had always led, and truly embrace life. I shaved my head to raise money for a boy with cancer, I took up tae kwon do, and I enrolled in singing lessons because the act of singing brought me closer to my mom. Lucky for the brave new me, singing lessons also meant participating in recitals, which included both group acts and solo performances. My singing instructor had talent coming out of her ying-yang (don’t judge me; I don’t know exactly what ying-yang means, but I heard my mom say it a couple of times, and it sounded edgy). Long, story short, I sang loudly in the group performances, and I did not die during my solo song. I didn’t even hyperventilate. However, I may have brought along a baby Jesus and a diaper bag and changed him while I sang. Amen
Sharpenedink 