I took a step, then another, and another. My heart climbed higher with each inhale as it hammered against my chest. The spotlights illuminated my chapped lips and shaky hands as I stepped out onto stage. Applause erupted in the audience and orchestra, every individual clap filling me with increasing confidence as I trod towards the piano that stood at the center of the stage. The conductor gave a nod and waved his baton, signaling me to begin. Perspiration clung to my forehead as I lifted my finger and set it down, feeling the hammer hit the note from inside the instrument. However, instead of the bright B flat, a sharp, unmistakable C filled the concert hall. 

My instructor spoke in a mellow voice, which she always used when comforting her students. I nodded along absentmindedly, staring into her silky blonde hair, mind drifting back to the event a month prior. After my first mistake, the rest of the performance had been equally disastrous. I had drilled the piece over and over afterwards, but nothing stopped an irrational fear from seeping into my chest at the thought of performing again. Now, as I wait in the practice room with my teacher, my body betrays me, adrenaline raising my heartbeat and oozing sweat onto my hands. As seconds ticked on and minutes flew by, I could not find it in me to clear my head. Instead, my thoughts spiraled, each one worse than the last. 

Once my teacher’s monologue came to an end, we moved backstage. In contrast to my bold and confident piece, a lulling melody was playing from on stage. As I sat, cool drafts from the overhead vents numbed my fingers, making the fast passages in my piece seem almost impossible, fueling my hysteria. My eyes darted around the room, searching for one last sliver of comfort, but found none as my teacher hurriedly left the room to find her seat in the audience, the door closing with finality. 

Distracted and consumed with terror, I was dragged back into reality when the host presented my name, and another round of applause started. I took a shaky inhale and wiped my sweaty palms against the cloth of the chair I sat on. As I walked out, legs shaking, I looked out into the audience and back to the orchestra, head spinning under the weight of countless expectant gazes. Each clap resonated as a crack in my conviction. When the conductor gave his signal, and I pressed the first note, a C screeched against the hall once more. My blood pumped furiously in my ear, entirely drowning out all other sounds.

As I let the orchestra take over for their part, I thought back to my teacher’s lecture and her lyrical voice, anchoring me. Clearing my head, focusing on one phrase and then another, I started the next passage. 

Once the final chord rang out, completely immersed in the music, I looked up, stunned. The audience responded with a roar of ovation. I spotted a glimmer of blonde hair in the crowd, teeth gleaming and hands in a repeated motion. My eyes stung with fallen sweat, but instead of the usual discomfort, all I felt was pride. I took my final bow with a broad smile. In one night, I vanquished the terror that had plagued me for countless months, exhausting my heart. For months, to conquer this fear, I worked every day and every week in preparation for the final concert. The work showed on stage, even though the results were far from perfect. Yet, not all fears can be resolved because it never truly leaves, not even mine, it only quiets. Despite my success, the fright returned every time I went on stage, threatening to tear away my progress. But I kept going anyway. One note, one breath, one moment at a time.