When I was fifteen, I was offered the opportunity to play in a side-by-side concert with the Dearborn Symphony. The Dearborn Symphony is a semi-professional community orchestra filled with brilliant local musicians led by Maestro Kypros Markou, a music director whose passion and love for his craft is unparalleled. I spent six years in the Dearborn Youth Symphony, and each year, the DYS was offered the chance for its most skilled ensemble, the symphony orchestra, to play alongside the musicians of the Dearborn Symphony. I can remember the evening with great clarity. Not only was I was terrified to be on stage with these musicians, but playing with a group of their size and skill level was a dream coming to fruition. We were to play selections from Firebird, Igor Stravinsky’s iconic ballet. My mother had promised her attendance. She had told me she’d meet me in the lobby before the show to say hello, so with the twenty minutes or so I had before the performance started, I gave her a call so we could meet up.
The phone rang, and she answered. “Hey,” I say. “Where are you? I can come find you in the lobby.” The silence that followed told me what unfortunately, I had already feared in the back of my head. “Oh, was that concert today? I had stuff going on earlier and didn’t think about it. I’m already home and settled in for the night. I’m sorry.”
Normally, I wouldn’t have minded someone missing a concert, but this concert felt especially important. At fifteen, this felt like the coolest, most significant musical thing I’d ever been a part of. I wanted people to show up for me, not just physically, but emotionally and mentally. I wanted people to care about and support what I was doing. There was a moment after she told me she wasn’t coming that I felt what I was doing was less valuable if no one was there to see it. Without anyone there who knew me, I was just some random kid violinist. With my family or friends present, I was someone’s daughter or friend. I was someone to be proud of. A lump formed in my throat as I tried to get it together enough to go out there and play Firebird.
I found my spot on stage and we tuned. I looked up at the Maestro, a short, gray-haired man from Cyprus whose presence and voice was nothing but comforting to the musicians. The hall went dark and he smiled as he gave the orchestra a gentle downbeat. What happened between that downbeat and the final cutoff was transformative for me not only as a musician, but as a human being. I played Firebird with more intensity, passion, and vigor than I ever had before. If no one was going to show up for me, I was going to show up for myself, emotionally and mentally. I played that piece like nobody was watching, and it was my best work. In fact, it stands as one of the most fulfilling moments in my musical journey thus far. When I looked up into the crowd as the applause began and the lights came on, I saw my grandparents in the balcony. They’d been there; they’d shown up for me and cheered me on the whole time, camera in hand. I’ll never forget that – because I’d just done the best job with that piece that I’d ever done, and they were there to see it, but in the end I’d done it for me.
What this important night taught me was what happens when you show up for yourself before anyone else does. It made me question the ways in which we do things and shape our choices based on who we think is watching us and how this affects the depth of our work. Many times, when we think people are watching, we stop doing things for ourselves and we start doing them for everyone else. We do them for the approval, the praise, or the ability to be seen and appreciated externally – but when we do our work and live our lives from this mental place, we lose some of the quality and authenticity of our work. It is a wonderful thing to be appreciated and praised but if we aren’t appreciating and praising ourselves first, all the external stuff is shallow. Our lives are works of art that should first be sculpted and shaped in a way that makes us happy and fulfilled before we present them to anyone else.
That night in 2011, the way I play my violin changed. I stopped caring if people come to my concerts. I stopped caring if I make that weird, scary face when I’m really into the music or if I have sweat stains under my pits by the time it’s over. I stopped playing with any thought of what I look or sound like to the audience members (save for a few moments of slight pre-concert terror throughout the years) and I started playing with the approval of only three people in mind: mine, the director’s, and the composer’s.
Taking care of ourselves first means we can contribute positively to the collective, whatever the collective is. Being in an orchestra is a beautiful thing because it reminds us that our part is just as important and never more important than anyone else’s. It reminds us how we all fit together. This idea of “showing up” requires many things, among them, self-care, self-love, and reflection on why we do what we’re doing as well as a critical analysis of how we do it. Only we are able to be supportive and appreciative of ourselves in the ways we need most. My family and friends may come to see me at the symphony, and I believe they are genuine in their support, but I am the only one who can give myself what I need to feel whole: and that is self-love, self-confidence, and a little slack on my toughest days. I’m the only one who can understand what I’m doing and why I’m doing it. Taking everybody else’s word for how well or not-so-well I'm doing does not help me to be accountable for what I am putting out into the world. Associating my ability to create meaningful art with the size or concern of my audience does not encourage me to be authentic in creating or presenting that art.
Showing up for ourselves means choosing not to assign value to our work or lives based on who is watching or listening to us, but instead on how we sound and appear to ourselves when we are reflecting as internally and intently as possible. Sometimes, no one will be watching or listening to us. We have to show up for ourselves on those days. How we are present for ourselves behind closed doors matters – for how we show up for ourselves in the practice room affects how we are able to show up for the ensemble – and that goes for everything, not just playing in an orchestra.
