From the first moment I can remember, I was never one to cling to my parents and I was always smiling. I distinctly remember making funny faces, or purposely ruffling my eyebrows to get people to look or laugh. I remember my grandfather telling me the little tips and tricks of the trade. The words I hear from vocal teachers, or theater directors, like breathe from your stomach or make the notes feel tall were all ones that I heard from my grandfather first. I remember watching TV and being fascinated by the way someone would say something or the way their face would inflect and I remember zoning out from whatever I was watching and repeating the word or wiggling my face to perfectly mimic what that person had done. It was a curiosity more than anything. I remember repeating lines of movies because I needed to know how accents worked. Though I could never explain how it happened, I always managed to mimic it. By the age of ten I had mastered a British accent to the point of getting a leading role in the musical Oliver Twist. I remember being obsessed with the attention an audience gave me and the fearless stride I had when walking on stage. Performing was my comfort zone, my happy place.

Then all of that changed when the fire nation at- just kidding. The first time I ever remember shaking was in fifth grade. I couldn’t explain why or how. Singing Garth Brooks’ Thunder Rolls in a class wide American Idol competition, it just happened. A strange tremor came over me and I remember singing with my eyes closed more focused on stopping than I was on the song. The over whelming shaking and anxiety continued throughout the day and then with no reasoning, stopped.

The second time I felt the shaking was in sixth grade. I was back stage in my full costume for my role as the mayors wife in the Music Man. The costume consisted of a horrid pink dress complete with a butt pillow. I remember how confident I was when I was in rehearsal but walking up the four steps to catch my cue, it happened. All of a sudden I was glad I did not have a speaking role. I remember swallowing every ounce of my pride as the auditorium erupted in laughter when I walked out, not with me but at me. I remember the jokes that continued even long after we had finished the shows.

The third time I felt the shaking was probably the most memorable. Almost four years ago to this day, I auditioned for The Voice TV show. Being seventeen and unable to audition alone, I walked up to the LA convention center in a newly purchased outfit that I was proud of yet not me in. I remember feeling confident stepping into the line that seemed more than a mile long even for being three hours earlier than the set time. I remember progressively getting more and more self conscious as the hours past hearing the stories of the other in line. I heard the stories of a woman who was unable to attend the Blind audition that she earned because of pregnancy gone horribly wrong, or the man who had performed on a children’s show in Mexico from an early age.

I remember repeating to myself that I belonged there too, that I deserved it too. I remember sitting down in front of the producers with ten other people who deserved it and belonged there. I remember the shaking starting as she pulled up the first name. I couldn’t see the name, but I knew. I remember gripping my purse for dear life. I remember choosing a new song on the fly. I remember the room staring at me. I remember the producers face when she told me I looked cute but I wasn’t ready. I remember sitting down and listening to the others who also were not ready.

I remember shaking every other time I ever went on stage. And every time it isn’t the stage I fear; I always loved the stage. It isn’t the audience I fear; they gave me energy. It was the shaking. I fear the stage fright, if that makes sense. I fear not sounding the way I know I can because of the shaking that has, at this point, become uncontrollable. Seems pointless doesn’t it?