A couple weeks ago, I happened to flip on the TV right as Nathan Chen performed his free skate at the Winter Olympics. I don’t particularly follow winter sports, but his performance brought me to tears as he landed five quadruple jumps, the most in Olympic history. This was following his two short programs which he himself called the worst of his competitive career. He’d gone is as the favorite for the gold medal, but despite all the training and preparation, something just didn’t click when it came down to crunch time.
I think anyone, regardless of how much familiarity one has with figure skating, could feel the sense of redemption and relief he exuded through his final pose. Apparently, he didn’t even tell his coach he was going to try such a difficult and risky move, but felt that he had nothing to lose.
It was an emotional moment for me because I felt for him - and I think many performers did. As a performer, often times you get just a few minutes on stage, and sometimes it feels like the hundreds of hours you put into practice doesn’t get any recognition unless you walk away with a crown or prize. You can do everything right in practice, and then get on stage and just have things fall apart for reasons out of your control.
“ As a performer, often times you get just a few minutes on stage, and sometimes it feels like the hundreds of hours you put into practice doesn’t get any recognition unless you walk away with a crown or prize.”
I play classical piano for my talent, and I happen to also suffer from extreme stage fright. I’m not quite sure where it comes from, but I’ve struggled with playing the piano in public since my first piano recital as a 7 year old. I grew up in San Diego, where a good portion of Chinese immigrant families sent their girls to piano lessons. However, being from Indonesia rather than China or Taiwan, my family wasn’t as plugged into these communities. As a result, I started playing piano at 7 years old, much later than most of my peers. I also went to a teacher that was considered very chill rather than one that prepped me for competitions and Carnegie Hall. This led to me feeling like I’d never measure up and that I’d started way too late, thus feeding my nerves any time I was on stage.
It’s still very hard for me to get on stage, no matter how many times I’ve practiced and how many breathing exercises I do before I go on. I think that some people assume at first glance that all titleholders are naturally outgoing and comfortable on stage, but I’m here to tell you that’s not always the case. Many girls share their crowning photos and talk about all the positive feelings they have once they win. Fewer publicize the difficult moments - I think sometimes there’s a pressure to make it seem like things come easy to you, but I know so many sisters who put in so much more time backstage than anyone knows.
Every time I step on stage is an internal battle for me, because I’ve had performances that went perfect, and others that go sour 20 seconds into the song. But the beauty of competing is that you eventually learn that all you can do is prepare and pray, and the final result and performance is up to God and fate. You learn to cherish your moment on stage and to appreciate the full journey rather than just the result. This is a lesson that I find relevant to anything that I’ve really wanted to achieve. When you focus on the results and the selection rates you can’t help but be discouraged, but you need to remember that those factors are typically out of your control, because people are subjective, and you have good days and bad days. What you can do is focus on the things you can control - your effort and your attitude.
I was reminded of this as I got to watch my Princess, Piya, perform at her elementary school talent show at Willow Glen last Friday. She performed a fun Bollywood piece, and as I was watching her and the other excited kids perform, I was reminded about what performing a talent is all about. The acts I loved the most were ones where I could just tell the person on stage was just having fun, regardless of technical ability. A 7 year old boy danced to Ghostbusters, a group performed a ballet routine but with funky masks on, another group performed a skit and re-enacted a game show. They were just kids having fun, and they weren’t striving for perfection - they just wanted to share their love for something - whether music or comedy. This enthusiasm and passion was infectious among the crowd that was cheering and laughing throughout the whole 3 hour show.
Sure, talents involve an aspect of technical prowess and polish, but at the end of the day I’m reminded that what performers do best is connect with people watching. It’s about loving what you do and being able to share something you love - and these aren’t things that you need a crown to do.