I just
wrote this essay for an English Class. Everybody in my family will
appreciate this story but I hope you enjoy this as well.
The Good
that Came from Fear
Eleanor Roosevelt once said, “We gain strength, and courage, and
confidence by each experience in which we really stop to look fear in the
face... we must do that which we think we cannot.” I can honestly say it took
me at least twelve years, first, to accept that this statement taught a true
and valuable lesson, and second, to appreciate the experiences that brought me
to this realization. This is the story of my first legitimate fear. My story
starts with a music lesson when I was six years old.
Despite the amount of innate talent one may have, beginning
violinists sound rough, choppy, and most of the time very squeaky. I was no
exception. It is just a fact universally acknowledged in my family. Those
first lessons were painful, not only for me as the student, but also for those
who had to listen to me. My practice sessions at home were repetitive and
for the most part out of tune. You can only listen to Mary Had a Little Lamb so many times before the crazy
feelings set in and you want to hunt down that lamb and put it out of its
misery. The great thing about beginning music students, however, is that every
one of us starts out at the same skill level, zero. Gratefully, my siblings
were forgiving, because all five of them also played the violin and understood
that growing pains were necessary.
After the first month of lessons, I learned what everybody else
seemed to already know. Talent takes hard work and time to develop. I’ve lost
count of how many people have told me the same story: “Yes, I took violin
lessons for a year, but I did not sound good and it seemed like a waste of
time, so I quit.” I have to admit after my first public performance, I
was almost part of this group. I enjoyed playing the violin. I was willing to
practice the required time, and I learned patience; however, I didn’t realize
that learning to play the violin would require more than this. It would demand
courage to accept the discouragement and periodic failure which were inevitable.
Let me describe to you why my first recital was so foreboding. I
was seven years old, and I had been taking violin lessons for about a year.
From my own naïve perspective, I was sounding great. I had rehearsed and
rehearsed, memorized my song, and I was really quite proud of what I had accomplished
thus far. The recital was an occasion to display what I had learned and
to showcase my progress. We were required to dress up for the recital.
I remember wearing a maroon dress with a pattern of blue and white
flowers, accented by a lace collar. I had an imposing white bow in my hair, and
shiny black Mary Jane shoes with silver buckles on my feet. I felt so grown up.
Naturally, excitement was buzzing in the air as my family and I
arrived at the performance hall and I took my seat among the other students. I
had a smile on my face during the first few performances. As my turn grew
closer, my smile grew smaller and smaller and I begin to feel a churning in my
stomach. Finally the moment of truth arrived. I arose from my squeaky chair and
walked slowly toward the stage. My legs were not cooperating as I felt clumsy
trying to climb the stairs to the stage without tripping or falling. I made it
onto the stage and turned toward the anxiously awaiting audience. I felt
every eye in the room on me. My knees began to shake, and I could feel
the blood drain from my face. Panic set it in. To this day I cannot
remember the name of the song I played. The only thing I do remember was
feeling stiff and petrified. I started my song playing tentatively and
sensing it to be barely audible. I felt the warm burning in my eyes begin.
After the first few measures, tears began to stream down my face. As I was
playing, the tears fell from my cheeks, ran onto my violin, and dripped to the
floor. Luckily my teacher, Jim Shupe, was kind of enough to step up and play
along with me to help me finish my song. It was then that I realized I was
terrified of performing and being in the spotlight.
I could not imagine anything more horrifying than having to get
back up on that stage. There was absolutely no way my instructor or my parents
would put me through that torture again. Of course, I was wrong. My parents
were supportive and pointed out two very important facts I had ignored. First,
nobody was laughing at me or making fun of me for crying. Second, I had
finished my song and played it completely memorized. I hadn’t forgotten any of
it. After many traumatic performances like this first recital, I
discovered the confidence and courage to control my stage fright. Part of this
was the realization that I would have my parents and teacher there to support
and encourage me no matter what happened.
After twelve years of lessons and performances, I have reached a
point where I like sharing my talent with others. Experiences like these help
establish a goal to work toward and can become a great motivating factor.
These moments help teach you to reflect on your own journey, so you say “Look
at how far I’ve come already and look at the possibilities ahead of me.”
I think C.S. Lewis said it best when he taught that “Getting over a painful
experience is much like crossing monkey bars. You have to let go at some point
in order to move forward.”
If I had
not worked through my fear, I would have quit playing the violin, singing, and
performing all together. It would have caused me to miss out on so many
memories and special moments with my family and friends. All of this
experience has taught me that that courage was not the
absence of fear, but the triumph over it. Because I was able to conquer my
fear and face it head on, my life has truly been changed for the better.
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