The reluctant performer

It's Complicated...

Don’t get me wrong; I’m good at it.

I’m good on stage.

I sing well.

I play well enough.

I perform well.

A Second Home

I grew up on stage in a way. My mom was kind of a minister. She delivered announcements and often prayed at the pulpit of our church in Houston on Sunday mornings. I have a memory of hanging on her legs up there; maybe those were Sunday night services. 

I was probably around 5, when I had the started sitting on the first row by myself, fidgeting like crazy in whatever frilly dress mom put me in, and getting the ‘you better sit still’ glare from her up there. I don’t remember anyone being with me. My dad was singing in the choir; my sister (10 years older) was with her friends, or in the choir, or another service? Mom would come down to sit with me when her duties were done.

My mother loved the stage. I heard she did a little theater before I was born. In fact, the story is that she played Julie Jordan in Carousel a year before I was born, and that’s why she named me Julie. My sister was no stranger to the stage either. My mom wrote plays; she and Robin were in the one she wrote about the sesquicentennial. I would’ve been 2. How do I remember that? Pictures? 

Both my mom and sister have been preachers, teachers, and public speakers. My mom’s parents were the same. My granddaddy was a musician and music minister. He was famous for his piano concerts. I saw my people on stage, at the pulpit, acting, speaking, preaching, performing.

I might’ve been seven or so when I sang my first solo up there at church. It felt like I belonged there. When I was a teenager, my youth leaders told my mom that I was a natural leader, a natural performer, a natural on stage; that I had impressive stage presence. 

When I was on stage, I sang and I escaped. When I was on stage, no one was fighting, and people were actually listening to me. I felt important; I mattered.

Permission to be Heard

I only felt comfortable singing on stage; not speaking. I was more comfortable leading a small group/class of my peers or younger, but I didn’t want to be on stage talking. I didn’t want an audience. 

Except I did. I wanted to be seen; I craved attention. But, I couldn’t ask for it. I didn’t know how to ask for anything. The stage was where I could shine.

I got more comfortable speaking on stage when someone put me in charge of something. I would never claim it for myself. I could speak, because I was being of service. 

Julie, we need you. 

I knew that drill!

You betcha! Let me help! 

If I’m of service, I’m of value.

If it’s not planned, I might be even better. Put a mic in my hand and ask me to riff for a delay, I’m downright entertaining. A little funny, goofy, even educational. I’m a good last minute emcee.

Why is that? I tend to be good under pressure. 

There was a lot of pressure at home when I was little. 

My dad was pretty light-hearted and easy, although we lacked true connection; and my mom could be fun, until she wasn’t. I like to remember those good times, but really, my body holds the memories of being on edge, walking on eggshells, trying to be quiet if needed, or to entertain as a distraction if asked. 

Julie, We need you to sing this song; to lead this… to put on a happy face. Dance, Monkey, dance. I thought that was my place. I conformed myself as a musician or character to whatever the stage required.

Finding My Voice Off Stage

When I started my trauma recovery journey, I found the power of my voice; I found agency. I didn’t know that word in this form before doing this work. Agency is having the sense of control of one’s life, and the capacity and faith to deal with what is and what will be coming.

Up until then, life was happening to me, and I was barely keeping my head above water. 

When I finally felt in control of my life, I started questioning not only the role the stage played in my life, but music and singing too. 

When 2020 hit, I had less capacity to do the bare minimum, much less all that I had committed to, as a musician. I also had unknowingly traded my sense of value as a singer for being valued as a songwriter. I was known for my beautiful voice, but when I found songwriting, I wanted people to hear me; like my story!

I performed in several capacities - 2 bands, solo with what I hoped would be my new songwriting career and guest singer around town. I almost never said “no” to a gig. That was my value. Even when I didn’t want to do it, I still did it. Some gigs I was thrilled to do; some I did out of a sense of obligation.

The universal shut-down created a required break from performing. It allowed me to focus on my continual healing and then ultimately I questioned how much I wanted to get back to it. 

My trio, Sweetgrass Serenade, had been recording our first album of original songs in early 2020. It was a struggle for me to finish it when we carved out time eventually to get back to the studio. Taking care of my mom and managing to keep my business going, and taking care of my own pain, each felt like a full time job. By the time our CD came out in November that year, I was at my wit’s end. I slowly bowed out of that project; I just had less capacity.

I was also gigging with my duo, Beauty & The Blues. The Blues is my beau. If anyone is going to take my grumpiness around performing when I didn’t want to, it’s him. I took on less outside gigs. 

I put songwriting on hold for more story writing. Any extra creative energy was spent realizing and redefining what I wanted for my coaching practice to become.

Songwriting was also on hold so that I could record some of my existing songs. I started researching recording the summer of 2019; right before my mom was diagnosed with Alzheimers. By the time our trio’s album came out late in 2020, mom couldn’t listen to it. You know how they say music is great for people with Alzheimer’s? Not new music. I tried to play our songs for her, and she was confused and asked for it to stop. 

My Dad got to hear and love our little album, Home. And, then he was gone a few months later. A week later I admitted mom to a long term care facility and a month later cleaned out her apartment. By the end of 2021 I was a bit dazed and confused. I had my first inklings of questioning the one thing that seemed my constant consistent companion; music. Did I even want to be a musician? Isn’t that what my parents wanted for me? Now that they’re (virtually) gone, what do I want?

I began work with a Grief and Life Transition Coach (highly recommended for these moments in life!). My first goal was to figure out how I wanted music to be in my life. Maybe especially because my parents were gone, when I thought about putting my songs out into the world, it felt like it would be for me. 

So, the research and projects began over the next year or so. I continued to gig with Keith. The grief ebbed and the world became easier to be in. 

How Does the Show Go On?

What I continued to struggle with was when gigs came up and I wasn’t in the mood. I’ve lived my life mostly by the mantra the show must go on, which worked when I put everything and everyone else first. 

Since I have done so much work the last few years to create boundaries for myself and to listen to my body and heart and provide for its needs, it has been hard to make peace with “the show must go on” and honor what I need. Sometimes, what I need is to stay on the couch!

This article started as a shorter FaceBook post early this year, when I was trying to advertise some upcoming gigs, pump myself up for said shows, and also to talk about the complexities of being a performer.  While I felt well enough, I was still recovering from my first bout with Covid, which saddled me with more anxiety and depression, like I’d never experienced.  

I had committed to a couple of open mic features to promote my latest EP, and when it came time to do them, I was struggling to get excited. Some folks “related” to the post and said they were “afraid of performing”, which is not what I was saying (not sure they really read it). One friend said, “But you’re so good at it.” And, that was the trigger for me in remembering all the times I was told my voice was a gift from God and it was my duty to share it. That made me mad. 

One of the reasons people are afraid of singing is that it can be vulnerable. And, while I’m a practiced and seasoned performer, when I’m not in the mood, had a bad day, depressed from Covid, had a fight with someone, or watched the news for 5 minutes, the last thing I want to do is perform. Because that means I have to shut down the complexity of many emotions swirling around and put on a “happy face”. Dance, monkey, dance.

And, I understand that’s not the case for some. Some people see it as a way to escape all that. I kind of get that; it’s just that my escape to the stage when I was young gave me a respite from the chaos, and I had to return to it.

Maybe if putting on a happy face hadn’t been part of my stage training, and I had had my emotions validated and accepted, and learned how to process them, the stage wouldn’t have become the escape (or prison) it started as. I was mostly faking it up there.

Flexibility is the Way

Once I built a life I didn't need or want to escape from, the stage became less important. Performing, sharing myself with others, started to feel more authentic and connected, and that now takes a different kind of energy from me. It’s more fulfilling, and can be easily exhausting too.

So, if I’m at open mic supporting or playing for my students, I might be signed up to perform, or not. If I’m singing, I want to. 

AND, I love singing and playing music with my sweetheart. I’ve learned how to be flexible if I’ve had a stressful (low capacity) day on gig day. Maybe Keith plays a few more songs solo. Maybe I skip the songs that aren’t speaking to me. Maybe I come late or leave early. I’ve found ways to go on, because singing grumpy is not enjoyable, and not a good way to make tips!

Before I found this flexibility, I would be resentful that I had to sing when I didn’t want to. I would forget that I had found agency. On bad days, all the learned lessons can be forgotten. Sigh. 

On good days, I love it. I love singing, I love expressing emotions through songs, I love connecting with people. When that happens, I love performing.

What are you good at that you don’t feel like doing all the time? Is it just the arts and sports where we get this kind of pressure?

Does anyone else have this complexity with sometimes being a Reluctant Performer?