The Recording That Shook Her: Reclaiming Confidence in the Softest Notes

* This story is shared with care. To respect the client’s privacy, some details have been changed. The essence of their experience and the outcomes remain true.

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When I first met this client — a gifted flautist in her early 30s — I was struck by her quiet excellence.

She had built a dream career:

First chair in a major orchestra, well-respected by her peers, and known for her dedication and precision.

On paper, everything looked perfect.

But under the surface, she was carrying a weight that made performing feel like a burden rather than a joy.

Years earlier, a careless, cutting comment from a conductor during a recording session had planted seeds of self-doubt.

Even though the performance itself had been strong, the experience left a mark.

From that moment, solos or quiet soft notes became minefields.

Despite her skill, her breath would tremble with nerves, and she’d feel physically unsteady in the very moments she used to love.

She also had a few moments where she had to play in an exposed piece in the context of an opera or a performance...

And she felt very, very judged by her colleagues, and by the audience.

"I kept hoping that if I just kept playing — kept working hard in these orchestras — then eventually, it had to get better."

But despite all the effort, that improvement never came.

The fear stayed lodged in the same places:

Soft entrances, solo lines, exposed moments...

And the more she tried to push through, the more stuck she felt.

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The Weight Behind the Music

She came to me not because she was struggling with her playing...

But because she was struggling to enjoy it.

(Okay, her playing was not exactly where she wanted to be either.)

“This can’t be it” she told me. “I’ve worked so hard to get here — why am I miserable every time I walk on stage?”

She was brave to even reach out.

Having already done deep work in therapy and tried different methods, she was understandably hesitant.

While EMDR therapy had been helpful, it only took her so far.

Traditional mindfulness didn’t resonate with her.

And while her therapist was insightful, they weren’t familiar with the unique demands of a professional musician’s life.

She felt stuck — and feared that maybe this was just how things would be now.

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Separating Her Worth From Her Performance

So we began gently.

We looked at her mindset, her values, and the relationship she had with her inner critic — a voice that had become relentless.

Together, we unpacked the belief that her worth was on the line every time she picked up her instrument.

We worked on self-compassion, staying present during moments of fear, and learning to recognise judgmental thoughts without clinging to them.

One of the most transformative tools turned out to be the use of an alter ego — a performance persona that allowed her to separate her personal self from the musician on stage.

This creative shift gave her freedom.

No longer was every note a personal risk — it became part of a story, an offering, a craft.

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Mindfulness with a Personal Touch

We experimented with different mindfulness strategies, adjusting as we went.

Some of the standard approaches made things worse, especially ones that heightened her awareness of internal sensations.

(This is something I’ve seen with clients who have trauma histories or are neurodivergent — mindfulness needs to be accessible, not triggering.)

Eventually, we found practices that worked with her nervous system, not against it.

We also explored performance routines, physical grounding tools, and breath techniques to soften the physiological symptoms — shaky hands, trembling breath, a sense of losing control.

All while returning again and again to the core of her artistry: Storytelling, creativity, and the beauty of music.

This shift in focus was what really allowed her to regain confidence onstage.

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The First Signs of Change

She showed up to the work with incredible consistency.

Every exercise, every reflection, every shift — she took it on with care and honesty.

And soon, the changes became visible.

She began to enjoy playing again.

Soft entrances no longer felt like threats.

She found herself laughing in rehearsal, feeling playful in performance, and showing up with renewed trust in her own creativity.

One moment stands out:

During a concert, she realised her beta blocker — the one she used to depend on for stability — was expired.

Instead of panicking, she chose not to take it.

She played anyway. And it was one of the best performances she’d had in years.

"It felt amazing! I was still nervous, still managing my breath — but it was all under control. And from that place, I could actually make something special. I used to think beta blockers were the only way to survive performances, but I’ve learned that maybe I don't need them all the time."

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Beyond the Stage

Even beyond the stage, her growth rippled outward.

In meetings with colleagues, where she used to hold back, she began speaking up with clarity and confidence.

The tools she’d built weren’t just for music — they were for life.

As she put it:

"Making music has become so much more enjoyable, even when I face difficult or intimidating tasks. I’m extremely grateful that I learned how to not believe my stage nerves and to stop judging myself for having them.”

Her transformation wasn’t about eliminating fear...

It was about learning how to move with it.

It was about reclaiming ownership of her experience and finding freedom in the very moments that used to paralyse her.

“The biggest change is that I enjoy music so much more — sometimes more than I ever have.”

I feel honoured to have walked alongside her in this chapter of her journey.

She was, and is, the hero of this story — not because she stopped feeling fear, but because she kept showing up through it, with honesty, creativity, and heart.