On High-Performance Moments & The Art of Letting Go
The other day my husband Spencer asked me, “If you have to do something that makes you anxious, like a performance or test with a lot of pressure, what do you do to feel less anxious?”
I was instantly reminded of a Christmas piano recital in 1999. There I was, ten years old, in a ruffled red velvet dress and matching headband. The recital was in an airy, echoey church, and I was sweating bullets because I had procrastinated learning a rather complex piece of music until two days earlier.
I had been madly practising this piece of music ad nauseam for the last 48 hours, and there was a tricky part that I only nailed once every sixth attempt or so. I was expected to memorize the piece, which meant if I got through the tricky part, it was going to be ok, but if I got stuck, I would likely fumble and forget the rest.
As each student before me took their turn, I felt increasingly sick. My younger sister stomped up to bat when it was her turn and grumpily banged out her piece without an issue. I was filled with envy.
When it was finally, inevitably, my turn, I walked shakily up the aisle, and plunked down on the piano seat. I stared down at my pale fingers. The silence stretched awkwardly. My pinky finger twitched and the G key vibrated softly through the room. Someone cleared their throat. I felt frozen. Everyone was going to see me fail. They would know how bad and untalented I was. I couldn’t even remember how the piece started. I could feel the first threat of tears welling up in my eyes.
For some reason, I looked past the piano at a stained glass window (probably in a plea for escape) and right into the face of Jesus, etched and bathed in the light of a street lamp. I must mention that I am not a religious person, so it was less of a devotional, calming moment, and more of a humorous one because – I kid you not – this Jesus’s eyes were staring in different directions, one up and to the right and one to the left, like a dazed chameleon.
I let out an involuntary, high-pitched giggle. Someone in the audience muttered. Somewhere deep inside I felt the tension release. I thought, fuck it, and just started playing. Muscle memory did its job. I played that piece right through as if I had been playing it for years. There was applause. It was all ok.
I relayed this story to Spencer and explained that from that experience, I had learned to laugh. To break up the seriousness of the moment by recognizing the hilarity of it. I do it to this day when faced with stressful tasks. He said that researchers in sports psychology have found something similar – before an important performance, whether it’s a free throw in soccer or standing at the start line of an important foot race (something he is very familiar with), researchers recommend recalling your favourite childhood memory. He had tried this at the start of races, with limited success.
I stand by laughter, because a childhood memory may inspire comforting and carefree feelings but lacks that immediate fuck it attitude.
Fuck it encapsulates so much – the recognition that the situation is ridiculous, that your own seriousness and self-importance is comically dramatic, and that none of this matters as much as you’ve convinced yourself it does. In this wave of awareness, there is that blissful release, like air escaping from a balloon. And with release comes presence, readiness, confidence, and the looseness you need to perform well.
The well-worn advice of imagining the audience in their underpants is a version of this, but perhaps in our hyper-stressed lives, we’ve forgotten why it works. I say, start with yourself. You’re being silly and this whole thing doesn’t matter that much.
Joie de vivre
This is the surprising wisdom of the Comic. In our archetype wheel, tension matters, and directly opposite of the Comic is the Sage. If you put a Sage and a Comic in the same room, something interesting happens, which is why Sages and Comics are paired up all the time in stories and films.
On the one hand you have the organized, rational, studious, dedicated Sage and across from them the carefree, relaxed, experimental, hedonistic Comic. They look at one another like they’re from different planets: the lawyer and the surfer, the CEO of a multinational corporation and the hitch-hiking backpacker, the academic speaking on a topic with the utmost seriousness, and the late-night comedian making fun of that same topic to roars of audience laughter.
This makes the Comic’s wisdom perhaps the wisest of all. The Comic represents the beginning and end stages of life. A Comic might resemble a child splashing in the ocean, free of goals and responsibilities. On the other hand, it might resemble the soft self-assuredness of an elder who has lived long enough to recognize they have everything they need right here, that they can stop trying and striving for recognition, stop collecting more wealth, and just enjoy the time they have left.
While parents and young adults bustle around making money, fulfilling responsibilities, judging themselves and others, caught up in a race they never intended to participate in, grandparents and toddlers look at bugs in the backyard, soak up the sun, make faces at each other, eat sweet bites of sticky watermelon, and take in the gifts of a summer afternoon.
5 ways to conjure your inner Comic
• Holiday. If you tend to feel stressed out and plan-obsessed on holiday, do something that reminds you of childhood. Splash in the ocean. Go to where people are congregated and dance, eat, and allow yourself to feel giddy with the freedom you have. Here, there are no responsibilities other than to live and experience. That is all you need to do. Release the rest. It’s ok – in fact, sometimes it’s better – when things don’t go to plan.
• Job. August is perfect for conjuring your inner Comic. Go outside and sit in the grass for lunch. Run your fingers through the lawn. Feel the sun. Pet a dog, watch people, or even talk to them. Interrupt your working brain by reminding yourself of the bigger world. What you do for a living is important, but not so important that it deserves the level of seriousness you give it.
• Debt. For anyone who feels wound up about finances these days, I highly recommend Annie Raser-Rowland’s inspiring, liberating book, The Art of Frugal Hedonism. Or if you prefer audio, she was a guest on the Slow Home Podcast. After listening to this episode I had the most enjoyable, delightful afternoon of solo exploration in my adult life. I was introduced to her when I was focused on paying back a hefty amount of student debt, and her work changed my life.
• Expertise. This is for those who feel the pressure to constantly prove they are an expert and receive recognition. If you feel like you’re on this particular stressful hamster wheel, try replacing stiffness or defensiveness with admitting you would like to learn more. Try asking for contributions from others rather than dominating a conversation. If you’re misinformed or don’t know something, laugh and become curious. The Comic reminds us that we are not respected only because of what we know or how well we do something, but how we show up.
• Obligation. We often schedule our lives based on a to-do list that will never end, and this leaves us feeling like everything we do is hurried and obligatory or must be productive. The Comic asks, what brings me pleasure? What do I relish? What brings me joy? How can this be more light-hearted? We all know someone who lives in the Comic side of life. If you go grocery shopping with a Comic friend, it’s likely to be a great time. Maybe they make a game of it, or they dance to the music, or they just take their time and buy exciting foods you would never consider. How can you make what you must do into something enjoyable? And how can you leave the most obligatory things behind altogether?
With all of this said, I’m going to pack a snack and sit by the river for a spell. Who’s coming with me?
Brittany Veenhuysen is a writer and co-founder of BrandPsyche. With a BA in English and a philosophical lens, she uses strategic storytelling to connect entrepreneurial folk with people they love to serve.