From the Desk of an Anxious Teacher

     The first time I remember it happening to a severe degree, I was in college. This wasn't even early college - I was over halfway through my degree program and approaching student teaching.

     Here's how the world saw it:

     Our state association of the National Association for Music Education had their conference every November. One student was selected per college to participate in a band conducting masterclass. The selected student would choose a piece of band music from a list, conduct a lab band, and receive feedback from a clinician in front of an audience.

     I was chosen to be my school's representative. From the outside, why shouldn't I be selected? I was a perfectionistic student, always studying and practicing, with a 3.99 GPA. I had an inquisitive, charismatic presence. My professors chose me in the good faith that I would prepare and present myself well.

     I did prepare. And prepare, and prepare, and prepare. On the day of the clinic, I stood up there and conducted in front of an audience. I got feedback. I got compliments afterward for how in control I looked.

     That's how the world saw it.

     Here's what really happened:

     It was the day before the conference. I wasn't finishing up preparations on my music. I was in bed, where I had been for the last several hours. I was in tears. It felt like the world was spinning out of control and a vise-grip  was squeezing my heart. I was having a panic attack. But this wasn't an ordinary panic attack. I had encountered anxiety before, but this left me immobilized for almost an entire day.

     The next day, I got up, went afraid, and conducted the group. I didn't allow the world to see the anxiety because I was even more afraid for them to see the anxiety than I was to follow through on the task.

    I am writing because the world doesn't see it that way. They don't see that I've been to more therapists than I can count on both hands, several medications (currently med. free, praise God!), or the continued struggles with anxiety. They see the smiling, caring, guiding teacher. Teachers with anxiety hide their struggles because our students need us, and we need to do our jobs.

     Today, I found myself searching Google for "teaching with anxiety disorder." Many results came up with advice on helping anxious students, but very few results appeared with advice for anxious teachers (by anxious teachers, I mean beyond the normal stress of the job - I am expanding into the realm of anxiety disorders here). I believe many teachers with anxiety disorders are out there, but are afraid of speaking out because teachers are supposed to be pillars of strength. Some silently walk out of the profession because the anxiety is too great.

     Perhaps we need to be more open about our weaknesses. I know I tend to have a much more stringent standard for myself than I ever would have for my students. Maybe we need to talk less about how many hours we put into work, or about all the extroverted leaders of teaching, and more about self-care, compassion, and the quiet but powerful teachers doing great work behind the closed classroom door.

     I made it past those anxious days of college and still teach, and I still keep my posed public self together, but the panic attacks still visit me sometimes. They are especially potent right before I am going to publicly speak or make a presentation (yes, I'm doing one soon). See, I am a person passionate about helping people and doing it well, but I function best behind the scenes. The anxiety sometimes makes me want to quit, but then I remember the psychiatrist who told me several years ago that I tested into the 97th percentile on the anxiety test he administered, into the realm of social anxiety. On that fresh May spring day, I felt like it may never be possible to step into a classroom and lead. Surely, I do have some limitations. I have lost many days to anxiety. But every Monday-Friday, I unlock my classroom door and keep teaching. Because people are worth it.

     

Collecting Stories

I love watching great teachers in action. I sit back and observe and daydream about how I would love to be as great of a teacher someday also.

Back to reality: I am not a great teacher.

I am a first year teacher. I am doing the best I can with what I know. It is the ultimate test of patience - I want to be good now, but teaching is a craft that only can truly be learned in the process of doing it.

I recently heard a talk by Dr. Glenn Nierman, the president of the National Association for Music Education. He had the persona of a great teacher - clear, charismatic, engaging, accomplished. But he said something very interesting as he reflected back on his first year of teaching:

"That first year, I wanted everything to be perfect. But I got to a point in which that was impossible. I almost didn't come back after Thanksgiving. I felt terrible to scale everything back, but I had to just to survive. I had to focus on only one thing being really good and let the rest be just ok."

Here I was listening to the president of the entire National Association for Music Education telling me that his first year, even he thought about quitting. I found it inspiring that his decision to push beyond that first Thanksgiving was the first step that led him to the speech he was currently making.

At this moment, something started to click for me:

This year isn't about being a great teacher, or vaguely "changing students' lives."

It is about collecting stories.

I need all these stories of fatigue, and temptations to quit, and imperfections, because they are the stories someone will need to hear from me 30 years from now. They will see the [hopefully] great teacher that I aspire to be. That won't need to be talked about. They will need to hear the memories I tucked away in my back pocket, the stories of struggle, of being a little less than ok and somehow making it anyway.

I will make it, because I have the story someone else will need.

Back to reality: I am not a great teacher.

Yet.

I am
Collecting Stories.

The Third Lap

I'm sitting at the park. The only sound I hear is my car heater running as mist coats my windshield. I came here to run but that probably won't happen.

I am tired.

I am a first year teacher. 

I am five months into a journey that has proven to be quite arduous. My schedule is such that every 25 minutes, a new class of 30-40 children enter my room for their music experience of the day. These children are beautiful, inquisitive, sometimes challenging, often inspiring. 

I am an introvert. I am a highly sensitive person. Emotions are thick, almost a waxy solid in my life. I feel everything - my energy and everyone else's. It's a heavy weight to carry when 400 people walk in and out of my life daily.

As I sit in my car, my imagination transports me back to a memory. The lights are bright, energy is high. I am at a mile race. I know the third 400 meters is crucial. This is the heart of the race, the place where the pain amplifies immensely and I am not sure I can finish. Keeping up the same pace as before is crucial or I fade behind the pack. I struggle. The finish feels so far away. Muscles ache and feet burn on the track surface. I have never felt so far from the end.

This is the third lap of the school year. I feel emotionally worn out, but am afraid to talk about it. Teaching is supposed to be a passion. Any discussion of wavering strength shows weakness and lack of dedication to the profession. Am I allowed to discuss my fading strength?

All I know is the rain pours, it's the heart of winter, and the third lap is mentally the longest.

Highly Sensitive Person: Blessing or Curse?

I am a highly sensitive person.

This is a topic I have wanted to write about for awhile, but never could think of the right way to do it. You see, we HSPs are always thinking about what is "right." And until we connect those dots, seemingly nothing happens.

The truth is, though, with HSPs, something is always happening. We are emotion sensors, both of our own feelings and those of others. We absorb atmospheres and moods. The exhaustion this takes makes me sometimes wonder if I would be better off without it: is the HSP trait a curse?

I don't have a lot of close friends. There are several reasons for this, but perhaps being an HSP is one of these reasons. I am unable to be comfortable at a loud, crowded party. Social interactions drain me quickly. While I have many things I think about, I have a hard time verbalizing them, as they appear to me as emotional flashes, vivid images. My experience often contains no words.

I know that being an HSP is why I was drawn to music. An emotionally saturated, over-thought life was difficult to process as it was. I often feel disconnected from my own body as I get lost in the world of thought. Music and running called to me. As I immersed myself into these activities, I felt more alive. However, the chasm between myself and what I considered to be the "normal person" continued to widen. I was awakening who I was inside, but others found it difficult to understand me.

I have seen many posts circling Facebook titled things like "20 Facts About Highly Sensitive People," or "10 Reasons Why Being Highly Sensitive Is Great." (I totally made those titles up, but something to the effect...) These posts highlighted all the wonderful things about being highly sensitive, like depth of emotion, being able to relate to others' feelings, etc., but often left out how isolating being an HSP can be. I often feel like I am alone in this profound experience while the world hurries and misses what I see. It can be very lonely.

However, I also know that being an HSP can be a gift. The friends I do have tend to be others that the world doesn't understand. I do not actively seek these people out, as I am friendly to all, but the people I end up keeping as close friends are others who are different, who need to be understood in depth. And it is this ability to relate to people that I hope will help me have a long and satisfying career as a teacher.

Only HSPs can understand why having this trait can sometimes feel like a curse. We want to be able to have a "normal" day sometimes. But, this sensitivity gives us the special ability to step into the emotional content of others and respond with great empathy. Helping others makes it worth it.

What Now?

In October, I sat down to write out my thoughts.  I didn't know what I was meant to do with my career, but I did know that when I thought about applying for a doctorate degree, something felt wrong.

I wrote a blog post called "Why I'm Not Getting My Doctorate [Yet]." I never published it. My intuition was starting to tell me that a break from school was needed, but I wanted to be sure. I took the auditions anyway.

I learned a lot from these auditions. I walked around New York City for the first time. It amazes me that the flute has taken me from rural Nebraska to so many amazing places.

I got into school. Yet, I still had this weight on my spirit, telling me now is not the time. I wasn't ready to commit to a terminal degree. I declined.

The DMA track isn't the path for me right now. It might be in a couple years (time will tell). I have had to look inside myself to see what is the path for me to follow. What do I want out of my career in music?

1) to help others learn and inspire them as people
2) to keep improving at the things I love to do
3) to stay true to my personality

I have been practicing orchestra excerpts for an audition. Usually, I am very motivated by opportunities that pass my way and work my way toward them. However, this time has been different. I've been struggling to get myself to practice them. I have had tension in my body. What is the cause of this mental and physical discomfort?

I believe that as humans, we are interconnected beings. The mental, physical, and spiritual are intertwined. If one is out of balance, the rest will follow. The fact that I am mentally unfocused and physically tired shows that my spirit is also imbalanced.

I stop to look inside of myself. I feel the same kind of weight I did back in October. Preparing for this audition isn't right. What is?

The answer to this question is to be determined. I have theories. Perhaps I am tired and just this audition isn't for me. Maybe pursuing a career in a professional ensemble isn't for me at all.

I have a bigger theory. The heaviest weight I feel is this expectation to be this great, impressive musician, to make people proud and happy. The approval weight, this need for a "good job, well done," is what really needs to be lifted. It is what blocks me from becoming the musician I want to be, not what I perceive others think I should be.

Music is a journey of self-exploration. I have discovered so much about myself as a person by studying music - what my weaknesses are, and strengths I didn't even know I had. I want to help others find this joy and to let my music breathe. I need to rediscover music,  to lift a pressuring weight off my shoulders and discover where my role fits.

I am a believer in the idea that everything in the universe has purpose. We all are being led somewhere of importance, a place where we can best influence and impact the world. I believe my purpose right now is to stay here in Oklahoma, to help and inspire the people right where I am.

Practicing is Not Magic

 Problem-solving practice. It seems so simple, right? The process is to figure out what is wrong and systematically determine a solution to fix it. Like a carpenter, a problem-solving practicer takes his time to consult the blueprint, choose the best materials, carefully put the materials in the correct locations, and then build. The project slowly but surely becomes "constructed" into a finished product.

Yet, how easy it is to fall into the trap of the more obsessive compulsive method of playing a passage, playing it again, playing it again....somehow hoping you will magically become a better flute player or learn it correctly. Unfortunately, I have not met any wizards.

"It isn't right! Let me play it again, and again, and again. Maybe if I play all of it slower, it will work? No? Let me find a magic wand..."

I will admit I have often fallen in the second group. Even as a graduate student, I still frequently fall back on old habits of this "wizard" practice, which is always (in my case) related to future thinking stress.

"What if I don't learn this on time?! This still isn't right? Maybe I'm just not good enough."

This method often sets me back. Imagine if the head of a construction project decided to rush through the building process without problem-solving. His building might not stand very well.

I think the reason why slow, methodical practice is difficult for many is because of the stress of school, deadlines, auditions, etc. We forward think to the product and forget the process, ignoring the fact that

WITHOUT THE PROCESS, THERE IS NO PRODUCT.

For example, I was frustrated the other day because my scale exercise that I've been working on for years wasn't even. I started getting angry about it: "I've been playing this for years...why is this wrong?!" That thinking only led to more tension and unevenness.

A flute friend knocked on my practice room door. I started talking through the problem with her, and in the process of verbalizing the problem, I ended up discovering a solution before she left. It turned out that I had the metronome clicking away at every beat, which was making me over-think about the evenness of technique. Setting the metronome at half-speed (clicking once every two beats) allowed my arms to relax and me to think about line more than beat.

The problem ended up being not what I thought it was (lack of coordination in my fingers). It was something completely different (focusing too much on the beat instead of line). If I hadn't stopped to talk it out, I would have continued drilling away, practicing tension with a too-fast metronome click.

My over-active brain struggles with stepping away to solve problems. But I know I am not alone, as I often hear sighs of exasperation coming out of practice rooms. My goal is to play less and problem solve more - that's right, I said play less, problem solve more. Stopping to assess the problem leads to quicker solutions and less "woodshedding."

Honestly, we all have to go through the phase in which we struggle with XYZ before XYZ can be easy. We have to be amateurs before professionals. The area in the middle is perhaps more important than the arrival at the end, for if we don't build a bridge over the roadblocks in learning, we will never reach the end goal.

Added note: Do we ever really "arrive" anyway? The bridge we build from A to B is never completely finished. There's always something to learn!

Will you join me in this lifelong goal toward more joyful practicing? 

P.S. Let me know if any of you find that magic wand. 

Artistic Freedom

I am a forward-thinking person. I am always dreaming about new possibilities and potential. Often, I don't take the time to stop and reflect on the great things that are happening in my life. I gather what I can improve upon, which is good, but I forget to allow myself to enjoy the success.

Before I move onto the next thing, this time, I'm going to stop.

I'm going to celebrate what is perhaps the greatest musical victory I have ever reached.

I played my masters recital this past weekend.

But that isn't the victory.

The victory is that I was comfortable.

I love playing the flute. I wouldn't have come this far without loving the instrument. But, performing has never really been easy for me. I have had performance anxiety ranging in severity from fairly mild, to trembling lips, to near panic attacks.

In the last year, I have finally sought help for this struggle so the music within can come out. Introspection is valuable.

Before my recital the other day, I waited for the symptoms of performance anxiety to come : the pounding heart, the dry mouth, and the dangerous-for-flute-playing constriction of the chest.

They didn't come.

In the middle of my recital, I was playing the Mozart Andante in C Major, and time stopped. The music seemed to transport me into another dimension, where only the flowing sound and clarity of emotion existed. It was the flow state that I have been seeking for a long time.

Mozart, Andante in C

This comfort was a welcome feeling. It allowed the ideas I've been storing up to flow more freely. It opened up the sound.

While there were plenty of critiques I had about the recital and things to improve upon, I am happy to unlock my musical freedom.

With this freedom, the world is open.