Performance Anxiety Part 1: How to shine in performance and presentation

As a coach and facilitator, I support people who feel uncomfortable with being seen and heard. People who might panic or freeze when the stakes are high and they’re required to give a performance in front of others, whether on stage, in the board room or on a conference call. In this post, I will offer some suggestions, points to reflect on and tools that could help you to feel calm enough to really shine in a performance, interview, audition or presentation. This is not a comprehensive list, because everyone is different and an approach tailored to each individual is far more effective than a generic one. Rather, I’m offering some tried and tested methods to get you started.

Part of what led me to this work was my own experience of performance anxiety as a young person. Some of my earliest memories are of myself as a young child, assembling any adults who happened to be around to watch me put on a show. It might have involved singing, dancing, acting or doing gymnastics all over the furniture, and it might have been a solo show, an ensemble piece with friends or a full-on cabaret in several acts. The adults in my life patiently indulged my high energy and regular requests to be seen and heard, and provided a safe environment in which to develop my performance chops. When I ventured further out into the world and had to audition for parts and places in the music world, I discovered what a less nurturing environment could do to my ability to give my best performance. From a fairly young age, I noticed the difference between performances where I felt comfortable and those where the fear of judgement or failure took over and had me shaking, losing control of my breath and sounding timid. Auditions, exams and competitions had wildly inconsistent outcomes for me as a result, and there wasn’t much in the way of support with managing ‘nerves’. This was just something young performers were supposed to be able to figure out by ourselves if we wanted to succeed. Things worked out well for me in the end though – I discovered performance psychology and a range of resources to help people to stay calm and grounded enough to deliver a great performance, whether it’s a work presentation or pitch, an audition, a show or a public speaking engagement. I’ve seen and experienced the difference that getting performance anxiety under control can make – most of us know what we’re capable of when we believe nobody is watching or listening, compared to what can happen when we’re in the spotlight. That speech was word perfect in the mirror this morning, but now that you see everyone watching, your mind’s gone blank. You’d give Whitney Houston a run for her money when you sing in the shower, but you believe you could never reproduce that performance for an audience. And that’s why I want everyone to be equipped with the tools they need to show people what they’re really capable of. So, here are some tips and points to reflect on as you prepare for a presentation or performance situation that’s causing some anxiety.

-Ground yourself:

Being grounded means connecting with your body to help you re-regulate your Autonomic Nervous System and prevent you dissociating (feeling disconnected from your body, spaced out, losing contact with ‘here and now’ reality) or freezing. Top tips to support this include pushing your feet into the floor, diaphragmatic breathing and taking a moment to get into a stance that feels open, upright, solid and moveable. Connecting with your environment also helps with grounding – you might want to do something like taking a moment to find three things in the space that are a specific colour, for example.

-An interview/audition is a two-way street:

You may have done your research and concluded that this organisation and role are perfect for you, and this may or may not turn out to be the case. Situations where things look ‘great on paper’ but don’t feel quite right when you meet and check each other out apply equally to those being assessed and those doing the assessing. If, beyond the discomfort of feeling nervous about the process itself, something feels a little ‘off’, it’s worth paying attention to your gut feeling, reflecting on what might be behind it, and – if possible/appropriate – asking questions to see if the answers reassure you. In some industries, most notably in highly competitive ones such as performing arts, people can be made to feel powerless until they reach a level of success that allows them to make choices and demands. For competitive roles, a sense that ‘if you don’t like the way things are done, there are thousands of other hopefuls for us to choose from’ is an old adage that needs to be consigned to history. There is increasing pressure on leaders to improve working conditions and recruitment practices or face difficulties in filling roles and pushback from the workforce further down the line. No matter what the industry or environment, abusive, humiliating or discriminatory behaviour are unacceptable. We all have more power than we are led to believe, and I’d argue that it’s usually worth holding out for a place where you feel welcome, valued and listened to.

-Develop a system that works for you:

Most people who often or occasionally struggle with performance anxiety develop an awareness of how that shows up for them and what’s most likely to happen if they get overwhelmed. A common example is forgetting words or lyrics, or ‘drawing a blank’ when asked a question you’d usually be able to answer. There may be physical discomfort in the form of shaking, nausea, feeling faint or muscle tension, and the realisation that some of these are visible to the audience can send you into a spiral of worry, shame and self-criticism about how they are being perceived. You might find that your mouth gets so dry, you can barely speak. So, the first step here is to spot any patterns – you might want to document your various performance experiences in a journal, where you note how you felt, what the environment was like, how you were responded to and your overall sense of how it went. If you were so overwhelmed that there are parts of a performance or presentation you don’t remember, this is useful information to note too. Once you have built up a sense of any patterns, triggers and insights, you can start to match your tools to your needs. It might be helpful to do this with the support of a coach, but otherwise, you can develop systems that help you to jog your memory, stay hydrated, keep your blood sugar stable etc. according to your needs. I sometimes like to write words or lyrics out ahead of a singing performance to remind myself of them, and because the physical act of writing them seems to help me connect with them. What would work for you? Treat it like a scientific experiment.

-Reasonable adjustments:

Where possible and necessary, don’t be afraid to ask for what you need. That might involve letting an interviewer know you need a moment to settle yourself before you respond to a question, developing a backstage ‘ritual’ with a friend to help you get calm or letting an organisation know about any accessibility needs you may have. Bear in mind that any reasonable adjustments related to disability, neurodivergence or diagnosed mental health issues legally have to be met in a workplace context. If you anticipate feeling overwhelmed by a presentation or interview in the workplace, consider scheduling before and after the event – is there anything you can do or request in order to give you some calm time and space to prepare and to decompress?

-Harness the adrenaline:

It’s become a cliché to say ‘use the nervous energy to your advantage’, and that’s not helpful when the fight/flight/freeze response and stress hormones seem to have taken over your entire being… But if you can learn to calm your system, you’ll be able to think clearly, connect more effectively with your audience and perhaps experience the nervous energy as excitement, rather than terror. Often, different but related emotions have similar physical sensations attached to them. How we interpret those sensations makes a difference to how our emotional state develops. There’s a symbiotic relationship between thoughts, physical sensations and emotion – we can influence our thinking and emotions by tuning into and adjusting our body’s responses (e.g. by slowing our breathing), and we can influence our emotional and physical response using our thoughts (e.g. by realising that some of what we’re calling ‘anxiety’ might be ‘excitement’). Learning to tune into what our bodies are telling us and developing ways of soothing the body and mind gives us a whole menu of options to help us deal with a stressful, scary or exposing situation like trying out or interviewing for our dream role. Crucially, practicing techniques that help you to re-regulate your nervous system when you don’t need them means that you’ll respond more quickly and effectively in the moment when you’re heading towards overwhelm. So, incorporating grounding and calming techniques into your regular routine means that they’re much more likely to work if and when you find yourself in front of an audience or panel with a sudden feeling of panic.

Good luck, and I’d love to hear how you get on with these tips. You can let me know, or set up an exploratory call by contacting me here.

Embodied, Courageous Communication

In explaining what I mean by ‘embodied, courageous communication’, I want to do my best to avoid throwing a load of jargon around. So, let me instead start by telling you a little about the experiences that have led me to be so passionate about supporting others (and, of course, myself) to express and communicate with courage and authenticity and to connect with the wisdom of our bodies.

As a person with ADHD, I’ve tended towards an abundance of energy – or rather, in the past, I was full of energy right up to the point where I’d burn out. I was aware of needing to move my body a lot, but not tuned into what else it may have been trying to tell me. That’s largely what led to me running myself into the ground at times when I was younger. My experience of communication was a little complicated too – I always had quick thoughts with many tangents, a tendency to use more words than I needed to and a love of performing. Some difficult circumstances in my early life meant that I struggled to communicate my emotions directly. But I found solace, emotional expression and a way of calming and connecting with my super energetic body through singing. In many ways, it was my biggest resource and most effective form of communication before I even realised it. Alongside a more general burnout, not knowing when to stop also led to an injury to my voice that took a long time to heal. That was the catalyst for a huge journey of learning how to understand myself, express myself authentically, listen to and care for my body, and connect more meaningfully with others. This ongoing process is what I mean by ‘embodied, courageous communication’.

I wasn’t really aware of all the defences I’d built up against anything that felt unsafe or vaguely threatening until I hit crisis point and had to address them head on. Learning about concepts like ‘body armour’ (holding tension in the body as a form of protection, often long after the threat has passed) and slowly trying out ways to regulate my nervous system while I built up a relationship of trust with a practitioner was mind blowing. By developing awareness of the physical sensations I experienced when I felt uncomfortably vulnerable, I could begin to join the dots between sensation, emotion and action, then make a decision about whether to do something to shift my state of being in the moment. For example, I learned that when I feel vulnerable, exposed or in danger of conflict, the muscles at the base of my skull tend to shudder or vibrate. Unlike some physical sensations or body signals, this one doesn’t feel particularly subtle. It’s showed up during difficult conversations and job interviews. It seemed to me to be my body’s way of offering up the ‘freeze’ option from a menu of ‘fight, flight, freeze, flop or fawn’. Essentially saying ‘we’re exposed, let’s retreat and hide!’ – a bit like when a toddler hides their face and believes that, because they can’t see you, you can’t see them either. But it’s rare that this is a helpful strategy in the context of a difficult conversation with a colleague or loved one, or during a job interview or big presentation. So the vibrating sensation is something of a warning that lets me know it’s time to take action that will re-regulate my autonomic nervous system – to do something that will bring a more calm, rational, present version of me back into the driving seat. This might involve pausing to take a couple of diaphragmatic breaths, grounding my feet and consciously releasing the tension from my neck.

This is, I hope, a useful example of something that offers a clear link between body sensations and communication. Of course, all of our communication involves our body in one way or another. But in the context of a presentation or a difficult conversation, it feels especially important to stay in contact with the parts of ourselves that can reason, connect with others and help us get our points across clearly. When the brain responds to a perceived threat and floods the body with the hormones and neurotransmitters that could save an endangered life, we tend to lose touch with our most sophisticated cognitive and social functions. The extent of these reactions varies hugely according to previous experiences of trauma, shame, the messages we received as we grew up, our neurotype, personality or other variables, such as whether we’ve had enough sleep and food or are going through a stressful time. Regardless, getting the best from our communication and performance involves a degree of courage, willingness to genuinely connect with others and ability to regulate our autonomic nervous system and emotions. That’s not to say that we should aspire to be in a state of permanent, zen-like calm, or to downplay our emotions and responses in a mandatory display of stoicism – quite the opposite! Suppressing and repressing our feelings will usually only take us so far before they catch up with us and either find an alternative route out into the world or stay buried and do damage to our health. But slowing down enough to really tune into how we’re feeling (something that didn’t come naturally to me and requires a lot of practice) equips us with choices about how we might be able to regulate and respond. Sometimes, we may be overwhelmed in spite of our best efforts and need time out to soothe our mind and body back into a state of calm. Developing awareness lets us know when that’s necessary and potentially helps us to prevent unnecessary conflict.

All of this offers up the possibility of facing into sensitive and difficult conversations. Though part of me would quite like to float through the world, avoiding conflict and anything that may bring with it the possibility of rejection, I’m a firm believer in the need to develop spaces and skills that support the sort of conversations that spark social change and deeper connections. I often work in the realm of Big Topics and discussions that risk exposing fears, complex power dynamics and boundaries, biases and potential for loss of relationship. I find that it’s common for people to fall into understandable patterns of avoiding the conversation if they can, becoming defensive or feeling shame. And I’ve also found that paying close attention to the creation of a reflective, embodied, compassionate space with encouragement to listen openly and challenge appropriately can really help to shift these responses. It’s not easy to do and it requires some effort from all involved in a group setting, a coaching relationship or any other type of relationship. In fact, it can be a far cry from the ‘holding hands and singing Kumbaya’ image that may be associated with words like compassion and safe space! But I know from both personal and professional experience that connecting with our bodies, minds, emotions and each other – in other words, embodied, courageous communication – can be truly transformative.

A bit about what I offer:

 I offer a range of coaching and consultancy services, delivered online and in person. I am a qualified coach and Performance Psychology practitioner, and use a Whole Person, embodied, relational approach in all of my work.

I have a particular focus on coaching work with those experiencing performance anxiety or having difficult experiences of being seen and heard. Examples of who I support include:

*Professionals who are finding it difficult to speak up at work

*People experiencing performance anxiety around presentations, performances or auditions

*Performers who are struggling to find their authentic sound

*People with minoritised identities who want to develop confidence in showing up authentically at work and in life.

In consultancy and facilitation work, I apply principles of psychological safety, embodiment and powerful questions in order to facilitate potentially difficult conversations and change processes that often focus on ‘big’ themes, such as belonging, identity, wellbeing and responses to organisational change.

Is there a good time for difficult conversations?

Almost two years of intermittent lockdowns gave us opportunities to reflect on what’s working or not, challenged our assumptions about what’s possible and necessitated a bit of a review of our needs and resources, both on individual and collective levels. For many people and organisations, this has pushed a need for change and exploration of potentially challenging topics further up the agenda. At the same time, events like the murder of George Floyd and resulting groundswell of support for the Black Lives Matter movement triggered a flurry of questions about social justice and what this means for us as individuals and communities.

And yet, all of this exploration has been taking place in a context of collective trauma, burnout, grief and uncertainty. The overwhelming message I’ve heard from people returning to changed workplaces and tentatively stepping further out into the world is that they are tired and perhaps a little more fragile than usual. Sure, there are those who have flourished in recent times and (provided it’s not at the expense of others) I’m happy to hear that. But for most, a sustained period of relentless change, restriction, uncertainty and potentially trauma has had an impact. So, what do we do with a context that includes big questions and burnout? Is this a bad time for difficult conversations? Is there such a thing as a good time for them? Below, I outline what considerations might be part of a healthy and effective approach to these tricky questions.

With any significant discussion or project, I believe that contracting and checking in about how we’re doing are among the key elements for success. The bigger picture of the contracting process involves things like establishing what we’re trying to achieve by setting aside time to explore a specific theme. If everyone has a broadly similar idea of what’s expected, the risk of misunderstandings can be lessened, and there’s more opportunity to ensure genuine, informed ‘buy-in’. Beyond these broad brushstrokes, we get into the nuts and bolts of contracting – the ‘when, where, who’ and logistics. But the question of ‘when’ is more than just a logistical one. Diaries can be hard to synchronise, both in professional and social worlds at the best of times. And when we’re at our edges, scheduling takes on extra significance. Many of us have found that what had previously seemed like a manageable number of meetings, social engagements and projects now seems like a real overstretch. Stamina and expectations may have shifted, and some interactions may be more emotionally costly than they once were. With this in mind, figuring a bit of decompression time in following a difficult conversation might be particularly helpful.

Asking ourselves, ‘is this the right time’ is a matter of honestly assessing a number of factors - the purpose and how urgent it is, whether we have capacity to do the conversation justice, our energy levels and resilience, and whether there’s a chance we could be avoiding the conversation because it’s likely to be uncomfortable. A quick assessment of what the risks and benefits of tackling the issue now or saving it for later could be a good start – what might happen if you do or don’t discuss this? How far away is ‘later’? As someone who’s spent years working with my tendency to start what feels like a hundred projects at a time, put the low priority ones off until ‘later’ and then forget about them entirely, I’m well aware of the risk of using ‘later’ as an avoidance tactic. I’m writing this at the end of a tough year – looking towards a new year is often a great time to pause, reflect and set goals. So, putting things in the ‘for the new year’ pile might make a lot of sense right now – but is there a specific plan and timeframe, or are you really saying ‘too hard, not now’?

Whether addressing a possibly friendship-ending disagreement on a political issue, making difficult organisational decisions or taking steps to improve a tense working relationship, some of the underlying themes are the same. Humans are so hard-wired for belonging, that this arguably shapes all of our interactions with others and heavily influences our sense of self. Ultimately, what makes difficult conversations difficult is often related to fears of being rejected or a strong sense of ‘I’m right and you’re wrong’ – establishing an in-group and an out-group. We might worry about being judged, about causing hurt and the consequences of this, about not being heard or having our dearly held beliefs called into question. These are significant concepts, and there can be a lot of shame attached to them. We’ve evolved to cooperate or risk rejection and death – it sounds dramatic, but the parts of our brain that are first to respond to a potential threat haven’t caught up with the fact that an argument with a colleague about, say, pronouns in an email signature, generally isn’t a life-or-death situation (but an important caveat - since we’re talking about pronouns, it is worth noting that a 2018 study found that the use of correct name and pronouns significantly decreased depression and suicidal ideation in transgender youth). Knowing that we may be carrying these fears or defensive positions into a difficult conversation, and that we’re doing this at a time when we may be feeling less resilient than usual, what can we do about all of this? Here are a few tips for the difficult conversations you’ve decided you need to have now.

·        Gather your resources, work on your resilience

If you’re feeling a little tired and rough around the edges, coming into stressful situations with a well-equipped toolbox is of extra importance. Take some time to think about what helps you to be at your most present and grounded, rested, calm and confident? You might want to make a list of objects, actions, people, places, words, and consider how you might take support from them in the run up to and during a hard conversation.

·        Bring in an outside perspective

When you are enmeshed in a situation, it can be hard to step outside the perspective you’re seeing things from in the moment. In a one-to-one or group environment where everyone has a stake in the outcome, it’s understandable that things might escalate. Bringing in an outside person to hold space can be useful. I won’t say that they’d provide an ‘objective’ view – on some level, they’d be bringing their own life experience, beliefs and knowledge into the room. But what’s crucial is their distance from the outcome of the situation at hand, which can provide a wider lensed view. This is something that can be done through professional intervention (consultancy, therapy, a senior colleague from another team) or in a more informal way, if you can identify a fairly impartial person who might offer a bit of a mediating role in a personal conflict.

·        It’s worth taking the time to really connect

Recognising the common humanity underneath our differences can mitigate the urge to put everyone into ‘them’ and ‘us’ boxes – that in-group/out-group default setting. It might not make a huge impact on fundamentally different views, but I’ve found it incredibly helpful in terms of promoting listening with open minds and hearts. It’s worth considering how you’ll connect as fellow humans before you launch into the Big Topics – for example, this might be done through a check-in (with the question ‘how are you really?’ in mind), some mindfulness work or even ‘just’ space for a coffee and a chat before getting stuck in.

·        Plan what you’ll do if it goes ‘wrong’

A bit of consideration of how to deal with overwhelm can go a long way. Even with good communication and planning, sometimes trauma triggers are hit and limits are reached. It happens! Thinking about offering time-outs and breaks, the ability to renegotiate for another day if you get completely stuck and opportunities to debrief later can support you in getting back on track and prevent a situation escalating further.

So, to return to the question ‘is there a good time for difficult conversations?’, the answer is yes, there can be. And with all the right support and planning, you may find that the conversations aren’t so difficult after all.

Need support with a difficult conversation? Contact me to find out more…

My new embodiment teacher - Covid-19

After eighteen months of following guidelines and agonising over what was safe, within my ethical framework and worth/not worth risking, I finally enjoyed playing my first post-lockdown gig at a festival recently. And unfortunately, in spite of various risk reducing measures, I tested positive for Covid-19 soon after. It’s not been much fun, but could have been far worse – no doubt, thanks to two rounds of vaccination. The thing that was most discombobulating was the loss of my sense of smell or ‘anosmia’. This has really got me thinking about the embodied approach I now instinctively bring to my work, my emotional wellbeing and life in general.

If you’ve read my posts online, attended workshops or heard me talk about my work, you’ll no doubt have heard or seen me mention grounding techniques and ways to connect with our bodies as a means to de-stress, feel more present and fend off things like panic attacks and responses to trauma such as dissociation (feeling detached from our bodies and disconnected from ‘here and now’ reality). I, and others working in this field, often encourage connecting with our environments and connecting with our own bodies as ways of getting grounded and present. This tends to rely on using our ‘five senses’ – sight, hearing, touch, smell and taste. Talking about our five senses seems to imply that we all possess a full complement of fully or partially functional sensory input and processing mechanisms – something which clearly is not the case for everyone. Although it hasn’t had an especially disabling impact on my life to be temporarily disconnected from one of my senses, it has reminded me that using sensory stimulation for grounding isn’t a ‘one size fits all’. Firstly, because not everyone has the same sensory capacity, and secondly, because we all connect with and feel soothed by our senses differently. Being neurodivergent, I have a lot of lived experience of sensory overstimulation, and sometimes what I need is less input, not more. But, like most people, I’m more tuned into some of my senses than others – these are the ones that can either serve as a fast-track to feeling calm and a quick way of connecting me with emotions and memories, or can cause overwhelm if the input is too much or particularly unpleasant. For me, these are hearing and smell – both of these are very important to me and very sensitive. This is why it was so bizarre spending two weeks sniffing at things that normally help to wake me up, relax me or make me feel excited about the food I’m about to eat, and getting nothing. I embarked on what seemed to be a pretty successful regime of smell training in an attempt to stimulate whatever olfactory nerves or mechanisms had fallen into an infection-related snooze. If nothing else, it was a helpful reminder after an oddly disembodied era of Zoom calls and remote connections, that I live in, and experience life through a body. And that bodies can be fragile, sensitive, wise, resilient and the recipients of so much mistreatment, whether intentional or otherwise.

I recently came across an article that vociferously argued against the traditional Cartesian theory of mind-body dualism and suggested we abolish the concept of ‘mind’ as separate from body altogether. It’s – ironically – a bit of a mind bender, but the more embodied work I do, the less I tend to think in terms of a separation between the mental and physical when I consider my own or others’ inner worlds. I look out for how thoughts, ideas and interactions and their resulting emotional responses are experienced in the body, and how physical experiences in turn might be shaping our psychology. There are specific physical signs that I’m pretty tuned into these days, and that serve to give me information perhaps even before my conscious mind has caught up. The one I tend to offer as an example most often is a vibrating or trembling at the back of my neck that kicks in when I feel vulnerable, exposed or threatened. Often, the threat is pretty benign – perhaps I’ve offered a gentle challenge to a client or received one from someone supporting me, and a small part of me is anxious about potential conflict. But sometimes, it’s an early alert that something isn’t right, and when I feel it, I know I need to respond. Alternatively, I can use an awareness of my physical responses to keep an eye on my list of resources that support my wellbeing, adding or deleting things according to how well they’re working for me… I’ll realise that certain practices, songs, smells, places, pictures or objects need to go on the list if interacting with them produces an instant release of shoulder tension, softening of the diaphragm, excited skin tingling or general feeling of ‘expansiveness’.

I’m excited to see the rise and rise of therapy, coaching, writing, retreats and training programmes using embodied or somatic approaches. It feels incredibly timely, and as if it might herald a much-needed sea change away from compartmentalising and intellectualising and towards a whole-person view of how we move through the world and interact with each other. In an age of rapidly developing technology, with seemingly endless opportunities to connect and express ourselves from ‘behind a screen’, it can be easy to forget that we are more than just our brains. Perhaps eighteen months of stark reminders that we are physical beings might offer an opportunity to bring about some balance in this area – here’s to more permission to rest when we need to, to tuning into what our body sensations might be trying to tell us, to remembering that we have the potential to be both vulnerable and resilient, and to offering our bodies some compassion. It might sound like a weird concept, but why not take some time to consider what your body wants to tell you, and what you might need to say to it? My message to mine right now is “thanks for keeping me alive through all of this, and for being strong enough to fight off a dangerous virus. I’ve been reminded of how grateful I am for the senses that I’m able to use to interact with the world and alter my state of mind. The simple joy of smelling the first coffee of the day, the garden after rain or a fragrant bath is one of those amazing “little” things that I’ll try not to take for granted any more”.

If you can talk, you can sing!

I’m in the process of planning a new community singing group, with a focus on wellbeing. I’m well versed in the many health benefits of singing and when I work with groups, I aim to create an accessible, supportive environment in which people can explore and experience them. Some of the responses I tend to hear when I describe my work include “oh, I can’t sing!”, or “I love singing but I’m tone deaf”, or “I wish I could sing but I can’t!” I’m always reminded of Dweck’s growth mindset vs. fixed mindset model when I hear this – believing that we lack potential to grow in a specific area is a great example of a fixed mindset. We accept that playing an instrument like the guitar, piano or violin will require hundreds of hours of practice to master, even though some people seem to have more of a natural affinity for it than others. But because our voices are an inherent part of us, a part of our anatomy, we may be tempted to think that only some, special people have the ability to use them to express ourselves tunefully. I disagree with this idea – sure, there are born singers, including a few people with vocal apparatus and lung capacity so extraordinary that they seem destined for a successful career in music (although the ratio of talented singers to career opportunities is quite daunting). Equally, there exists a small number of people who are truly ‘tone deaf’ – up to 4% of people have Congenital Amusia, which is tone deafness that cannot be explained by factors such as hearing loss, brain injury or other cognitive/environmental factors. In spite of that fairly low prevalence, I’m sure I hear far more than 4% of people I encounter claiming to be completely, permanently unable to ‘carry a tune’. This always makes me a little sad because, although not everyone is quite as invested in singing as I am, I hate the idea of self-limiting beliefs preventing people from enjoying this particular form of self-expression.

Because our voices convey our emotions, our thoughts and identity, using them (whether for singing or speaking) can make us feel vulnerable at times. We’re putting ourselves out into the world, asking to be heard and dealing with whatever response is received. Singing is a super-charged form of vocal expression, because it combines the evocative nature of music with whatever emotions and stories are conveyed by lyrics, and because each of us has a unique sound that lets the world know something about who we are. It requires physical/muscular support and is more of a workout than it’s often given credit for. It becomes obvious to the listener if, when we sing, we feel so unsafe and uncertain that we lose control of our breath and our ability to find the right pitch or remember the words. So, I understand (from both professional and personal experience) some of the reasons that people might be a little shy about singing, particularly if they know that someone might be listening. And the less often we do something, the less naturally it seems to come – we don’t develop muscle memory or confidence, and we solidify our belief that ‘this is just something I can’t do’ – it can be a vicious cycle. There’s also the huge and debilitating issue of shame. So many of us have had experiences, in childhood and beyond, that shamed us into making ourselves smaller, quieter and not expressing who we really are. Many of us have had humiliating and even traumatising experiences of being heard by others and judged harshly, of being paralysed by stage-fright or of being laughed at when we dared to raise our voices and express ourselves. This really contributes to a sense of feeling that it’s not safe to be heard or that we ‘can’t sing. But that needn’t be the end of the story… discovering safer, more supportive places and people to sing with, exploring and challenging the critical voices we use to talk to ourselves (voices that likely once belonged to someone with an influence in our lives), and taking small steps to increase our vocal confidence can all help to turn things around.

Regardless of whether you claim you can’t sing but are happy to joyfully belt out a tune in the shower, or you refuse to let a melody pass your lips at all, there are various ways to get some of the wellbeing benefits of using your voice. For example, humming or chanting can be part of a mindfulness or meditation practice. Taking full, diaphragmatic breaths to prepare for vocalising, and extending the exhale (humming until you run out of breath) kicks in a physical process that brings your Parasympathetic Nervous System into play, promoting rest, calm and recovery. It also helps to bring your attention to the body and provides a focus point for those who find it hard to sit quietly with their thoughts. It’s still early days in terms of the science of this, but there are some studies looking at whether meditation with vocalising has increased therapeutic potential (for example, due to vagus nerve stimulation). But whatever the science says, I know from experience that singing and humming can be fantastic ways to get grounded, move past ‘stuck’ emotions, connect with the body and self-soothe.

I’m curious about how my thoughts will land with those who say they can’t sing. If that’s you, I’d invite you to be curious about it too. What emotions, thoughts or memories come up for you as you read this? What might that mean? Are you willing to challenge any of your assumptions about this? Does it matter to you? If the answer to some of these questions is a resounding ‘no’, that’s ok. Not everyone feels the need to use their voices in this way. Though to me, it seems that singing is an inherently human and beautiful thing to do. So go ahead and sing like nobody’s listening – the good news is that you don’t need to be ‘good’ at it in order to reap the benefits to your wellbeing.

Looking for support with being heard, using your voice to improve your wellbeing or learning to sing? Contact me!

Adapt to Survive; Create to Thrive

Reflections on wellbeing for creative professionals and all of us as creative beings

Last time I wrote about creativity, I ended with a reflection on ‘create to thrive’ as a step up from ‘adapt to survive’. I was thinking about the impact of loss of connection and stimuli on our creativity during lockdown. Now that we’re emerging back into collective spaces, with arts venues reopening and shared experiences back on the menu, it seems like a good moment to ponder how we might get to that ‘thriving’ place, with creative juices flowing and means of expression available.

Perhaps it seems frivolous to be focusing on creative expression when so many people around the world are very much in survival mode (whether that’s due to the impact of Covid, climate change, conflict or all of the above). But we’re inherently creative beings, with imaginations capable of dreaming up works of art, nation states, complex stories and solutions to problems – this stuff is fundamental. Having an outlet for our thoughts, feelings, ideas and struggles has a proven impact on our health and wellbeing. I’d advocate for everyone having some form of expression – getting emotions, thoughts, ideas and challenges out of our heads and into the world somehow is a powerful therapeutic tool. It might be through talking, writing, singing, drawing, moving our bodies or making physical objects – the medium isn’t important, but the act of creation is.

Given the power of these forms of expression, it makes sense for me to argue for access to the arts for all; for supporting the performers and creatives whose livelihoods (and creative outlets) have been decimated by a global pandemic and years of funding cuts by right wing governments; and for us all to view creative expression as an essential aspect of a healthy society. I only have to look at how the reintroduction of visiting musicians to my gran’s nursing home changes the energy of the residents to remember how much we need the arts.

Revisiting my expectations of my energy, creativity and social connections after lockdown, I’m struck by how unrealistic they were. I’d felt for so long like a coiled spring, waiting to be let go so I could bounce into the air, releasing all that pent up energy. The assumption was that I’d be ready to leap into action, connecting with as many people as I could, and suddenly finding myself able to create again – writing, singing, dreaming up exciting new projects. In reality, I’ve started see people, jam with my band and attend events in person as much as I can, but I mostly don’t feel inspired and exuberant so much as a bit tired. The fog is lifting, and my creative energy is gradually reigniting, but it’s a slow burn, rather than a big bang. I wonder how many people are feeling the same way right now, and in particular, how all those who make art or perform for a living are faring as the need to produce to deadlines and fill up the performance calendar reappears. I wonder what support creatives might need in order to get fully in touch with their most inspired, energetic selves and fall in love with their craft again after a hellish year-and-a-half. Community, advocating for more health-promoting working practices, and offering accessible help to those who are struggling seem like good considerations to start with. Our creative industries need their workforce to be well, and there is much to be done in order to address some of the less healthy working practices and dynamics at play within them. For those of us who aren’t directly connected with these industries, there are many ways to support the makers of the various forms of art that enhance our lives. We can buy from local artists, musicians and makers, attend performances (whether live or virtual), amplify, share and credit the work of artists we come across… and we can be mindful that, in spite of the old adage ‘choose a job you love and you’ll never work a day in your life’, creating art and performing is harder work than it might seem.

For all of us, whether or not we consider ourselves ‘creative’, there are many ways to support our own wellbeing through creative expression. For me, creativity and connection are inextricably linked – I find that connecting with others, with nature and with my own mind and body helps to put me in the right headspace for creating and coming up with new ideas. After a retreat where I’ve spent a few days breathing, walking through fields and woods and connecting with others, I’ll often sit in the garden and find songs, stories, blog posts and ideas for projects seeming to just appear on the page of my notebook before my conscious mind has a chance to start asking questions. Everyone will have a different creative process that works best for them – if you don’t yet know what that looks like for you, I’d suggest a few small practices to get your senses and imagination going… Carry a notebook and jot down any fleeting thoughts, ideas, observations as they arise. Go for a walk out in nature and pay attention to the colours, sounds, smells, shapes. Sing in the shower. Sit down and write for five minutes without stopping. Doodle while watching TV and build on the doodle until you’ve filled a page. The beauty of this is that you don’t have to be ‘good at’ any of these things for them to be of benefit. Expanding your perspective beyond the mundane and routine can help you to feel more optimistic and come up with innovative solutions to problems. That’s why, during this time of re-emerging into the wider world, I’m advocating for all of us to to find ways to ignite a creative spark that will help us to thrive.

By Mo Ford

Picture credit: Tim Mossholder via Unsplash.

Performers are not our Property

I don’t think I have anything new to offer on the subject of how artists’ lives can be ruined by an insatiable public thirst for their trauma, but right now, I’m fizzing with thoughts and feelings about it. Lately, op eds and news stories about the ‘Free Britney’ movement have been all over the media. There are so many angles that could be taken on the story, from a bit of salacious gossip, to voyeuristic coverage of a widespread conspiracy theory to an opportunity to examine and hold to account both the performance industries and media coverage of the not-so private lives of those in the public eye.  

For the uninitiated who may have intentionally or otherwise missed this media ‘Circus’ (reference intended!), a new documentary covers Britney Spears’ father’s Conservatorship, which allows him control over her life and finances, as well as outlining the misogynistic and invasive harassment from all corners of the media at the height of her fame. This will likely come as no surprise to any of us – whether we actively follow pop culture, read tabloids or watch talk shows, I’m in no doubt that we’ve all seen how performers, and especially women and other ‘minorities’, are publicly treated. This is old news. Watching the documentary fired me up and reminded me of how devastated I was when I watched the posthumous Amy Winehouse documentary. And all of this reminds me of why I’ve made some of the decisions that I have.  

Performers are often a little emotionally vulnerable. There’s a fragility about putting ourselves out there to the world, asking for attention, for people to relate to us, for judgement. Research* somewhat unsurprisingly shows that performers tend to have a strong drive to please others, and that eating disorders and alcohol/substance use issues are common. People who feel things unusually deeply and intensely often make the best singers, songwriters, actors and dancers because they become adept at channelling their joy, fear and pain into their artform and communicating it to an audience. Mix that with behemoth industries such as huge record labels and the tabloid press, and we have a perfect storm. Performers help us all to process our own feelings when we can’t, and to shake loose our own self-expression by sharing theirs. That in itself strikes me as something pure and just so essentially human. But the grubbier parts of our humanity that are never satisfied complicate things. These industries arguably exist to ‘give the people what they want’, and we apparently want more gossip, more albums released, just more of everything.  

I’m not sure when I first consciously became aware of this. I’ve been performing all my life – since I was a tiny only-child in a sea of adults happy to indulge my nonsense, I would march into rooms, announcing that it was time for me to put on a show. Like a lot of kids, at a very young age I had vague ambitions of fame – I wanted to be like Cher and I made sure my entire street knew it when I sang into my hairbrush for them all to hear for the millionth time. My family and I fought tooth and nail for financial support to get me into a specialist music school. It took at least three years for the money to appear, only for me to walk out in a silent ‘diva strop’ around eighteen months later because I’d disagreed with the Director’s suggestions about my career plans. I knew, aged sixteen, that finishing formal musical education at that time wasn’t for me. I knew that even on the relatively small platforms of concert halls and opera houses that it was brutal out there. I still have huge respect for the friends who pursued this path and found it was the right one for them. But I knew it would be tough because I’d suffered horribly from performance anxiety (it didn’t have a name back then - I was just not good enough at controlling my nerves). And because I’d done competitions where equal weighting was given to my performance and how my outfit ‘flattered my (sixteen-year-old) figure’. And because I’d seen barely adolescent musician friends reduced to tears after being publicly humiliated by Directors with an ‘artistic temperament’. The often too-personal criticism and competition for work can encourage some pretty difficult relationships among peers – and for young people just finding their feet in the world, extra judgement and jostling for position doesn't seem healthy. I hope things have improved since I was that age - it seems some things have, while other issues stubbornly persist. I mention all of this because I changed my career plans from aspiring classically trained singer towards offering young people the support I’d needed – eventually, I learned how to support developing performers to feel safe, to self-advocate and to express themselves wholeheartedly. When I hear about what’s happened to artists like Amy Winehouse or Britney Spears, part of me hopes that I’ll be able to support a young person in a way that equips them with the tools to fight back, should they happen to land in the spotlight (or in fact, their local drama group with its charismatic, yet vaguely inappropriate Director). 

 It’s often struck me that the world of performance can lag behind other parts of society in terms of acceptable ways to interact with people and uphold their rights. Part of this seems to be about the idea that artistic success, fame or regular work as a performer are so desirable and scarce that every hopeful is ‘expendable’. The ‘Me Too’ movement shone a huge light on the abuse that takes place when this concept is allowed to take root in an already misogynistic world. The tired, abusive old adage is essentially, ‘if you won’t put up with this, there are a million younger, prettier girls who will and you’ll never work again’. (And of course, it’s not only women who are affected by this, but misogyny is a huge part of the picture). Greater numbers of people are starting to say no, to go public about this, to fight back. I’m encouraged to see young women artists taking back control of the music they release after horrific experiences with producers and record labels. Of course, the burden should not be on the survivor/victim of abuse to make these changes – we must all hold those in power to account. As ‘the public’, we are the ones being sold the idea that performers belong to us. It’s at least in part down to us to push back on this notion by voting with our feet or our wallets.

Some will say that this is the life performers have chosen and that they should be grateful for their success and graceful towards their detractors. Whether or not you’re particularly sympathetic towards pop singers, actors and the like, this stuff matters. It matters because it’s a barometer of how human lives are measured and valued. There's a disturbing paradox in how disposable and forgettable well-known performers can be seen to be by those with career making and breaking power, and yet how the paparazzi and the court of public opinion may decree that they also have no right to be forgotten or afforded any privacy. If we can objectify the people we demand to be entertained by, who help us to feel our own feelings, isn’t it possible that society is capable of doing this to all of us? And I have to mention the hit that’s been taken by the arts as a result of the pandemic plus (in the U.K at least) brutal funding cuts. Rest assured, it’s not going to be the big shot producers, company directors or media bosses bearing the brunt. So this is my plea for us all to support our local – and global – artists, remember that performers are people and speak up against abuse.  

*E.g. Borland, 2011, ‘The Singer’s Psyche’.

Fear, Hope, Action!

New year is a time that, for many, symbolises hope. There’s the looking back and reflecting on the time that’s passed, followed by the ‘reset’ - positive intentions and desire for more of the things that went well and a chance to improve on the things that didn’t. This new year has been no different, in some ways. We all know that pandemics and political crises don’t care what date it is, and yet, we may wish to shed 2020 like a too-tight skin, casting its chaos into the past and looking towards brighter times. I’m always at my most reflective at the turn of a year – I enjoy the opportunity to pause, take stock and consider what’s next. And the extraordinary events of the last year have got me in full ‘meta’ mode – reflecting on reflecting. I’m interested in the nature and purpose of the hope that we may bring into a new cycle, and its relationship to fear. Recently, I’ve heard a few people say that they dare not allow themselves to hope, which strikes me as desperately sad. I’ve allowed myself to peek at a little crack of light coming from somewhere, but it seems dangerous to trust that the light source is the end of the tunnel. This seems at odds with my usual way of being these days – I worked for years on making cracks in my (frankly, very impressive) emotional suit of armour. There’s nothing like a persistent pandemic and its mismanagement to make me run towards the old familiar defences, I suppose! And I’m angry about some of my hope being ‘stolen’ because of a lack of competent leadership in the country I’ve moved to. I want to look ahead to thriving arts scenes, live music, hugs with friends and shared spaces, and use them as leverage to persist a little longer with the inconvenience and the fear. But it’s never long before my refrain of ‘I wonder how they’ll manage to screw it up this time’ kicks in. It reeks of powerlessness, and I don’t like to stay in that place for long. 

And so, I notice a desire to take the anger about my dashed hopes for an end to feeling scared and being trapped in a seemingly endless cycle of locking down and opening up, and channel it into action. Action may not always have predictable consequences, but it exists in the here and now, the material world. Hope and fear, on the other hand, are essentially two halves of the same phenomenon involving looking ahead. We may also feel fear during a particular event, but the anticipation of what could happen seems to account for the majority of our fear and anxiety responses. The point is that we may often look to the future with hope, fear or a combination of both – they are responses to uncertainty, and there is plenty of that around right now. 

In the last year, I’ve learned more about how I respond to risk, uncertainty and feeling powerless. I’ve taken risks that surprised me. I’ve endlessly weighed up the potential consequences of every small decision, so as to avoid causing harm to others. Sometimes I've put my foot down and advocated for my own and others’ rights, and at other times, I’ve been pulled reluctantly along a path that doesn’t feel quite right, forgetting all about my power. This range of responses will no doubt provide me with some useful information to ruminate over for a while, but what I’m left with again is the need to have both reflection and action. The next step, of course, is to figure out what that action is.  

‘Hope over fear’ is a familiar soundbite for me as I cast my mind back to 2014 - it was a central concept in the Scottish Independence campaign. I’ll try to resist the temptation of rehearsing lengthy op-eds about the differences between Brexit and Indyref, or the difference in public trust in the Scottish and U.K governments’ handling of Covid-19 for now. Suffice to say that there was a powerful moment during that campaign when young people were more politically engaged than perhaps ever before, the signs in windows, street art, community events and polls spoke of hope, and of each of us having the power to contribute to real change. I think what I want is a bit of that feeling back. I know that this particular campaign has never gone away and I remain hopeful that we’ll be successful in the end. But I don’t just wish that feeling of solidarity and change for my own country – when we’re done with staying in our homes to protect each other, I hope that we’ll find other collective, proactive ways to protect each other and hold those in positions of power to account. Even as I write this, the defensive suit of armour is whispering in my ear ‘those who are taught they’re born to rule will do anything to cling to their power’, ‘what about all the people who have shown us they don’t care about others?’ and ‘how much can you really achieve when you’re up against a system meant to benefit the few?’ But I’ve concluded that, in order to get to action, I need to hold on to hope. Not blind optimism, but a healthy mix of hope and caution, perhaps. Maybe the healthiest approach really is to allow ourselves to believe that the light we can see is the end of the tunnel. And if it isn’t, the question becomes ‘what are we prepared to do about it?’ 

Creative blocks, pandemic pressure and space to ‘just be’

Remember all that time ago – it seems like a thousand years – when we first went into lockdown and so many of us promised ourselves myriad ways to stay entertained, distracted, productive and creative? In reality, our most important task was to avoid contracting or spreading a deadly virus, but the shadow of our hyper-capitalist society backed us into a corner, deafeningly whispering “to be worthy, you must create. You must produce”. The desire to resist this notion and the need for creative expression have formed an interesting conflict in me. Or at least, it seemed to be a conflict. But coming to terms with permission to ‘just be’ and a need to turn thoughts, feelings, pain and things that can’t be expressed any other way into some kind of artform are not mutually exclusive.

I distinctly remember thinking a few years ago about all the things I’d be able to do, if only I had the time to slow down and really focus on them. Throughout my life, I’ve always had multiple projects on the go at any given time – while this has slowed considerably since my mid-thirties, I have it on good authority that others still consider me to be busy, energetic and ‘always doing something’. Clearly, this has never been less true than in 2020. Of course, I’m not alone here – we’ve all had to slow down, clear our social calendars and move around in the world far less than we’re accustomed to. But as for my fantasy of how, if forced to stay home for an extended period of time, I’d play my neglected piano until I was at least as good as I’d been at seventeen, I’d write a whole album (or at least an EP), I’d learn a new language, I’d finally get serious about playing guitar, maybe I’d even write a BOOK… well, it all remained in the realm of the fantastical. For balance, I will admit that I did go foraging for wild garlic and cooked more than I have done in years, I recorded duets with my wife and sent them to my gran at her nursing home, I blogged and I planted herbs and vegetables. Yet somehow, the simplicity of these acts didn’t feel like ‘enough’. I suspect that this is where that shadow creeps in and threatens to corrupt the concept of creativity. It wants more – bigger, faster, more impressive.  

But what happened to the creative spark that I somehow assumed was just lying dormant, waiting for long, languid days before rising to the surface? This side of a second lockdown and close to a year into the pandemic, such an assumption seems faintly ridiculous. And now that I think about it, the times when I’ve felt the most imaginative and full of ideas, emotions, flowing words and energy have all had a few themes and circumstances in common. These include intensive, collective experiences of breathwork or other modalities that let me process ‘stuck’ emotions and get into my body, the ecstatic energy that comes from dancing in a crowd to live music at a festival, bouncing off a bandmate’s energy in a jam session, listening to the infinite wisdom of my ‘coven’ friends around a fire… these are some of the moments when I feel most alive and most creative. So, it should come as no surprise at all that this year, when almost all of these experiences have been postponed or at least significantly changed, my creativity doesn’t feel quite as juicy as it may otherwise have done. Having said that, there’s something encouraging in this reminder that my creative spark is fed by connections with others (even if the actual ‘creating’ part needs a little solo time and space to ignite it).

I also find it interesting that it was at first so easy for me to discount the fact that I’ve metaphorically birthed a whole new entity – a limited company, which somehow feels so much more real and tangible than the model I was operating under before. Perhaps I was a little worried that creating a company with a director and corporation tax was somehow feeding that shadow beast. And yet, it remains an act of creativity – going from idea to action, feeling passionate about specific issues and seeking to address them. I’m fascinated by the intersection where ideas, passion and creative flow meet the world of work and business. My own experiences, and watching the experiences of high-profile performing artists from afar, have led me to want to be part of a movement that advocates for artists to have a voice, rather than be silenced or even abused by those with mainly commercial and self-aggrandising interests in mind. Perhaps seeing things through this lens is what leads to the ‘ick’ factor for me when I think about the meeting of creativity and industry. But without the arts and all the roles and industries behind them, where would we be? A whole other blog post, series of posts, book could barely contain all there is to say about the impact of a pandemic on the creative industries and the political decisions that threaten to bring the arts that sustain and distract us, and that help us to express ourselves, to their knees. So maybe that’s a subject for another day.

My main takeaways from this moment of reflection are as follows. Firstly, while aphorisms about how it’s okay to ‘just be’ abound on inspo-gram posts and a whole genre of assorted merchandise, there’s an element of resistance about permission to step off the hamster wheel. Maybe that permission and that easing of pressure to do more is a good first step in unblocking whatever it is that’s stuck. And this may never be as pertinent as it is during a pandemic where we’ve been forcibly slowed down (key worker jobs notwithstanding). Secondly, creativity – at least, for me – requires input, inspiration, a stimulus. Sometimes, that input can be the expansive feeling of connecting with the natural world, but just as often, it’s sparked by connections with people. Having come to this realisation, I’ll be seeking out more opportunities to get together with other humans to see what we can create. If this crisis has taught me anything, I hope the lesson that sticks is not to take things (or people) for granted. And finally, it’s worth unpacking what we might mean or assume when we think of ‘creativity’. On some level in my mind, a hierarchy has set in – as if I’m only ‘doing it properly’ when writing songs or stories, for example. In reality, we are creative beings by nature, and under the right circumstances, we can apply that spark to anything we do. It’s fair to say that the circumstances have been less than ideal lately, though I’m encouraged to see the incredible things that artists are continuing to produce. ‘Adapt to survive’ has that vaguely dystopian, Darwinian flavour to it, but when we’re feeling secure enough at survival level, perhaps the next step is ‘creative to thrive’.

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