Step 5: My First Hospital Performance Experience (Before/After)

I remembered it vividly. I woke up that morning with a knot tied tightly to my stomach.

You know, the kind of knot you get before a huge exam that you forgot to study for. The first thought that hit me as I opened my eyes was: "Today's the day." I was finally going to be able to play the piano at the hospital. At one point, this moment had felt like a dream: something exciting, something far off in the distance.

I used to imagine with a sense of comfort, me sitting at the piano, playing with ease, making people smile, and maybe even changing someone's day. How would that be any bad?!?

But now that the day had actually come, it felt nothing like that.

Now, it didn't feel like a dream - it felt like a nightmare.

The comfort that I used to attach to this moment was gone. Replaced with nerves, doubts, and fear. I kept questioning myself with the same train of thought I used to have, What if I mess up? What if I'm not good enough? What if I completely blank out in the middle of my performance? The version of myself who dreamed of this day was full of confidence and calm. The version of me sitting on the edge of my bed with strands of hair sticking up was anything but. That contrast hit me hard: how something that I once longed for could suddenly feel so terrifying the moment it arrived.

But then, in the midst of chaos, I reminded myself that I didn't start this journey to be perfect. I started this because I wanted to give something meaningful to others. I visualized my grandparents' smiles and the joy on their faces when I played for them. I remembered how music connected us. Slowly, my breath began to steady.

When I arrived at the government hospital, any calm that I had the strength to regain that morning was instantly shattered. Right in front of me was a full-blown band, a legit band. There were around 5 of them, and each of them looked like professional musicians with 20 years of experience under their belt. Together, they beautifully played a Thai song, one you would expect to hear at a high-end restaurant. Right from the get-go, I was completely intimidated. And to make things worse, there were rows upon rows of chairs in front of the stage where I'll be playing, it seemed more like an audition than an act of service. If you're curious about what the stage looks like, here you go:

The chairs weren't just chairs. They were filled. With doctors, nurses, patients, and everyone that you can quite possibly imagine at a hospital. All of them were off their phones, waiting, watching, listening.

The hospital was also filled to the brim with all kinds of people walking in and out of the hospital: here is what the environment looked like.

And I was next.

As the band wrapped up their performance, I could feel my hands getting sweaty, and my chest was so tensed that I had trouble breathing. My mind raced with every possible worst-case scenario. The host called my name. My feet moved before my brain could stop them.

And here I was, all of this preparation led to this very moment.

I sat down in front of the piano. My hands hovered over the keys, but my mind went...silent. Completely blank. The first song I had planned to play, the one I felt the most confident with, just vanished out of thin air. All of the weeks of practice led to nothing.

I couldn't even remember the first note. All of those doubtful thoughts about myself were starting to become a little too real.

But then, just before I was able to get up and make a run out of the hospital. Everything came back to me. Slowly, the notes returned. My hands began to remember even when my head didn't. Bit by bit, the fog cleared, and I played.

It wasn't flawless; I had a couple of mess-ups. But it was enough.

When I finished, there was applause—not the standing ovation applause that the band before me got, but sincere. A nurse smiled at me, and one of the elderly patients gave me a thumbs-up. In that moment, I realized that connection, not perfection, was the real point of this performance. The people won't remember the wrong notes, but they'll remember how the song made them feel.

After the first song, I proceeded to play the remaining 9 songs, and with each one, I felt more and more like I was back playing for my grandparents in their living room. That fear that I initially had didn't completely vanish, but it shrank. My hands moved with more ease, my heart started to slow down, and the music began to flow naturally. I wasn't just playing anymore, I was communicating.

And after an hour had passed, I had played my final piece. I took a breath, not the nervous kind that I had taken earlier that morning, but a calm, full one. I had made it through.

Not effortlessly. Surely not perfectly. But truthfully.

Walking away from that piano, I felt a ton lighter. I knew I had faced something that scared me and had come out stronger on the other side. That day, I didn't just share my love for music; I shared myself.

And that, I think, is the most powerful kind of performance.

In the next post, I'll discuss my post-performance reflection, basically what I got out of this unprecedented performance.

If you don't want to miss the next post, consider joining this blog; it's completely free. Just enter your name and email below, and I will send you notifications whenever I post something new.

Stay tuned.

-Team