Step 4: Mental Preparation

After I successfully gained permission to play at my first hospital visit, I thought I'd feel excited, energetic, and even relieved. But instead, a wave of anxiety started to accumulate. With each passing day, my nerves grew stronger, and soon, the thought of playing the piano was the only thing occupying my mind. Even though I know that I can comfortably play all 10 songs, I started to second-guess everything - Would I remember all the dynamics? What if I completely blanked in the middle of the performance? What if the patients don't like my music? Would they be annoyed rather than pleased?

The more I thought about things going wrong, the more I started to doubt myself.

This piano performance wasn't just any performance. It wasn't a recital in my grandparents' living room or in the comfort of my home.

This was real.

I was playing for strangers: people in pain, people dying to get answers, people in the middle of something hard, people after realizing that the course of their life had just changed forever. I wanted my music to be a gift, not a distraction. And with that goal came a weight of responsibility that I've never carried before.

But as fear crept in, I always reminded myself of why I even started in the first place. I wasn't playing to show off my piano skills; it was to comfort those who were going through tough times. And the thing is, comfort doesn't require perfection; it just requires heart.

Because of this, mentally preparing became a practice. I had to learn how to control my thoughts and fear of failure, breathe deeply, and trust that all the hard work I had done was enough.

In the days leading up to the performance, I gave myself permission to rest and to stop questioning myself about what would happen if everything went wrong. In addition, I also found a deep sense of relief and appreciation for my pets.

My cats and dog became my emotional support crew. My cats would curl up next to me and cuddle with me whenever I was sitting on the sofa, reminding me that no matter what happened, I would always have them by my side.

My dog would always sleep next to me whenever I played the piano. She didn't care if I missed a note, tempo, or phrasing. To her, I wasn't a "performer." I was just someone she loved, doing something that I loved. And somehow, that was enough.

Their unconditional presence reminded me that the purpose of this performance wasn't perfection; it was to be present, to give what I could, and to let music do the rest.

And because of that, I remembered why I started this journey in the first place. I was ready, not to impress, but to connect.

If you are ever in a situation similar to mine, I hope you pause to remember your why.

You don't have to be perfect to start, but you have to start to be perfect.

In my next blog, I'll be talking about my experience at my first hospital visit.

Stay tuned.

-Team