As he climbs onto a brightly lit stage, all of his focus is poised on a single note. The journey up these steps is a routine that he is used to. They are in a place of fortitude and confidence – a fortress. He knows that as long as he walks up the steps, he will succeed in any endeavor that he may face on the stage. He hears the reassuring voice inside his head, telling him that no one will judge him unless he lets the walls of his fortress break down, allowing doubt to pour in like a vast ocean of a single thought: I’m doing the wrong thing. He must resist this thought and step to the middle of the stage.

The applause is a tumult of ecstasy, something no one could understand until they have attempted to show a crowd of hundreds exactly what they can do when it comes to the thing they love.

In my private middle school I never had an issue singing publicly. I guess it’s easy to be comfortable with the same twelve people you’ve known since you were six. However, I knew that this small-town feeling of knowing and being comfortable with everyone around me couldn’t last forever.

As a freshman in high school, I knew only four kids in a class of hundreds. When you’re already that isolated, it’s pretty easy to keep to yourself and do activities that most high school students would think of as out of the ordinary. Every day I walked down the steps to the performing arts wing and then back up after the bell rang without a glance of embarrassment or apprehension. No one cared who that random private-school kid was or what he did with his time – at least, that’s what I told myself. After all, I had made no friends by the time winter came.

Luckily, snow and congested vocal chambers are not the only things winter brings; wrestling season was my chance to finally meet others and begin to enjoy high school. By the time the season ended I was known as the captain of the freshman squad. More importantly, I had gained a handful of friends, an outstanding record of 17-2 – and a leg injury.

“I understand that you really want to continue to wrestle, but due to how we had to repair the tibia plateau and patella tendon, I don’t think it will be possible if you want to recover full use of your leg.”

Being completely shut out of something that you’ve done your whole life is an experience that many would find hard to fathom, but it is within the realm of understanding. The only thing that separates those who do and don’t understand is the difference between actually going through the problem and simply saying, “That’s too bad. I really feel sorry for you.” My new friends happened to land on the latter side of that.

After two surgeries, two titanium bolts in my leg, an almost full XBox hard drive, and countless sympathy cards, I finally realized during sophomore year that I couldn’t just sit in the muck that had once been my outstanding wrestling career. I worked on strengthening my leg with lots of physical therapy. I’d never thought that an activity that had once provided me with so much strength could also sap so much of my morale. I decided to enter the world of competitive sports again, and took up lacrosse. I was back, unrestricted from what I wanted to do. In lacrosse, I got the same feeling of accomplishment I’d had from winning a wrestling match. I’d also realized something else: I needed to plug into my other talents if I wanted not only to return to my former level of confidence, but to exceed it.

The friends I made during wrestling season are the greatest group of people I could ask for. We could be ourselves around each other without fear of more than a jokingly aimed comment here or there. I, however, had always been aware of how my peers viewed me, and I worked to keep a reputation that I considered acceptable. So my hidden talent stayed secret – that is, until this year.

At the start of junior year, I had successfully sung around those I deemed unlikely to judge me: my choir class and close family. But my choir teacher, Mr. Hanes, had bigger plans. One day he approached me with a proposition: he wanted me to try out for the extracurricular vocal ensemble called Vocal Jazz.

“I appreciate the offer. I’ll think about it,” is what I said. No, I won’t. It’s too risky, is what I thought. I was completely against the idea – not because I didn’t think I was capable, but because I didn’t think my friends would accept me once they found out I liked to sing.

Before that day I’d had no trouble walking into the arts wing for eighth period. Now, however, everyone was watching me as I walked down the steps to the hallway leading to choir class. That is, I thought everyone was.

I beat myself up over the idea of Vocal Jazz. I knew that it would be a change; what I questioned was how much that would affect me. Five days after the proposition, and with much pushing from family and Mr. Hanes, I decided I would find out the answer.

“Practice is 6:45 to 7:35 from Tuesday through Thursday, including gigs at the country club and all around the school.”

“Okay, I can handle that.” But can my friends?

That question would be answered the following Saturday when my friends and I were playing hacky-sack. It happened when I least expected it: halfway through a shoulder-stall, which, by the way, took forever to get down.

Nick said it first: “Yo, Christian, I heard you have a hell of a voice.”

Jackson followed up with, “Yeah, I had no idea you could sing. How about a little sample?”

This was the moment I had only thought possible in my worst fears. The secret was out.

The news spread. But my friends – who I had feared would be full of judgment and criticism, using my talent as an excuse to break me down – showed their true colors just as I did. I’d never felt so relieved. I could do what I loved without feeling ashamed, and heading up and down the stairs to the art wing was no longer a walk of fear.

I’ve learned that if I don’t place trust in my friends, I will never trust my own decisions. Vocal Jazz has offered opportunities far beyond what could have been had I decided to let fear make my decisions for me.

Vocal Jazz has ended for the season, which means no more out-of-school concerts, no more staircases leading to a stage, and no more early morning practices. But next year, the ensemble will be performing at Carnegie Hall in New York City, and I will once again have the opportunity to climb a staircase onto a brightly lit stage. This time it will be with a newfound confidence.