Presence Prevents Perfectionism
Five of us stood in a semicircle in a large lobby, watching as nursing staff gently settled residents into chairs and wheelchairs.
After introductions, I played the first three notes on my phone, cued the others, and in unison, our voices rose. We began to sing, "Come sing a song with me," and from the aviary behind us, finches and canaries joined in. Their exquisite, melodic trilling blended with our own, creating a beautiful harmony. I got goosebumps.
A smile spread across my face as I listened to the lyrical tone of our voices with the birds' song. I felt my thighs and calves rooted and strong, my heart open, my face and throat relaxed. In that moment, I knew: I am here. And I am glad to be so.
Our singing is rich not just because of the music, but because of the intention we bring to it. This intention is rooted in the connection we share with ourselves, each other, and the residents. While our weekly rehearsals focus on harmony, pitch, and lyrics, our true work is the shared exercise of being deeply present with one another. It's this being in the moment that creates true resonance.
For generations, my family has chased perfection, so it's not surprising that presence—with all its messy, unpredictable beauty—isn't my first instinct.
However, decades of stage fright and performance anxiety have also taught me that perfectionism doesn’t actually get me love and security I long for. As a public speaker, presenter, workshop leader, musician I’ve had to find a new way forward.
As a Somatic Experiencing Practitioner, I've learned that presence is the nervous system's native language. It's the state where we can truly rest, where our digestion works properly, and where our bodies can reset after a stressor.
My professional work is about helping people with nervous systems stuck on high alert. Our modern lives—demanding jobs, relentless expectations, and inherited family histories—often keep us locked in these adrenalized states. It takes time and, as my singing group has shown me, a deep commitment to develop practices that help us unstick ourselves from this constant activation.
I’m learning what presence feels like.
Prior to being on stage, presence is taking in my surroundings. I notice the room I’m in, the temperature, smells, colors, and the people around me. It’s taking a drink of water and noticing the way it tastes and how it makes me feel. It’s feeling my feet being supported by the floor. It’s noticing my heart rate, and how shallow or deep my breath is. It’s making eye contact and a smile with friends and strangers.
Most importantly, if mistakes occur regardless of pitch, lyrics, or awkward stumbles, presence is noticing what else is also here in the form of felt support and learning to notice the details of that support. It’s deciding to cast a playful smile. It’s noticing how constriction might be present in my chest, and that I can also draw my attention to wiggling my toes.
It's a beautiful irony: the more I release my grip on perfection, the more my true self—and my performance—can shine
