Stage Fright Isn’t Just “Nerves”

I’m going to describe what nerves really feel like for a student. I will go into some detail, and it‘s not pretty, but it’s important for us to know what our kids actually go through.

So here is what happened to me.

My Personal Panic

The first time I actually practiced — really focused, intentional practicing — was because I thought I was in danger. Not physical danger, but the kind that makes your stomach twist: My comfort zone was at risk. I felt like this was the worst thing that had ever happened to me (and maybe it was, because I was only 12!).

I hated solo and ensemble contests. Hated practicing. Hated standing up in front of people. I felt fine around my group of friends, but beyond that? I was painfully shy. I didn’t raise my hand. I didn’t speak unless I had to.

My assigned solo was “At the Ball” by Forrest Buchtel. I was told to prepare it, so I did what I thought was practicing: I would play it, stare at the wall, play it again, check the clock, play it again. I wasn’t proud of what I was doing — I knew it didn’t sound good — but my mom told me to do this, and you didn’t mess with my mom. So, I played it over and over and over again.

The morning of the contest, I panicked. I couldn’t do it. I decided to fake being sick with an Oscar-worthy performance. I went to the cabinet and grabbed the Chicago Bulls collector’s cup from McDonald’s, then I went into the bathroom, made gagging noises, scooped water out of the toilet with the cup, dumped it back in for “realism.”

My mom heard me. I walked out with droopy eyes and disheveled hair. “Oh my gosh, you sound terrible,” she said.

“Yeah,” I croaked. “I feel awful.”

“You just need to rest. Have some 7Up and saltines.”

I nodded, relieved. “That sounds good. Thanks, mom.”

“Alright,” she said. “Get dressed, and right after solo ensemble, we’ll come home, and you can go to bed.”

Wait. What?

I had that mom. The “rub-some-dirt-on-it” mom. The “take-a-Tylenol-and-go-to-school” mom. And nothing I could say would change her mind.

So, a few hours later, I stood in a generic classroom with bad lighting and a folding chair. The judge sat behind a table. A few parents were seated in the back looking comical in the small desks made for their middle school children. The pianist gave me two pitches. I nodded like I knew what I was doing, and then I played two completely different pitches. The pianist had to teach me concert pitch right there. Had I learned it before? Sure, but it was easier to blame my teacher rather than admit I was talking in class.

At that time, I didn’t know the phrase “self-fulfilling prophecy.” But I no longer had to fake sick. My nerves were in overdrive, and it felt like something was squeezing me around my chest.

I played the solo — barely. People clapped. I went home and spent the rest of the day in bed “recovering” from my fake illness. Couldn’t even watch TV.

That moment didn’t suddenly turn me into a super practicer. But it did sting. It made something very clear: All those hours or “working” and practicing didn’t actually helping. I had never learned how to perform or how to deal with what happens in your body when it’s time to.

This Isn’t Just About Confidence

Most of us have seen it: A kid plays their solo perfectly during rehearsal. You’re sure that they’re ready. Then the concert begins.

Their body is in full red alert. Breathing is shallow. Hands start to shake. By the time they start playing, they’re already drowning. They come out looking like they failed everyone.

We try our best to support our students. “Just breathe!” “You’ve got this!” But the problem isn’t confidence. It’s biology.

Here’s how you know it’s not just “mental”: You can see it. The kid couldn’t get their fingers to work. The brass player looked like they forgot to play in the small end of the instrument. The percussionist completely blanked, even though they had the piece down that morning.

Nerves Live in the Body — So Teach the Body

When kids say they were “too nervous,” they’re talking about a real, physical response. Their brain told their body they were in danger. Their body did its job.

Heart rate goes up. Muscles tense. Breathing shortens. Tunnel vision sets in. That’s not weakness. That’s a survival response.

We can’t just coach that away with pep talks. We have to train for it.

Start with repetition in front of people. Make performing a routine part of your class. Every week, pick one or two students to play something in front of the group — even just a scale or two lines of a piece. Rotate through everyone. Make it normal. Keep it low-stakes.

I’ve had students play the same two lines of chorale four weeks in a row because I wanted them to feel what it’s like to be “on” in front of people without it being a big deal.

Then practice the “walk in.” Literally. Have students rehearse how they’ll walk into the room, stand, take the two pitches and breathe. Talk about that moment — what it feels like and what they can do with the feelings.

One year, a kid asked if he could perform with a group of kids positioned extremely close to him. So, before school, we set up some chairs and had him stand about a foot away. Way too close for comfort, but he wanted the practice space more stressful so he could have an easier time during a performance. Just the fact that he wanted to try this approach told me that we were on the right track.

Finally, teach basic physical tools, such as

• Grounding: flat feet, stable stance, deep breaths.
• Muscle control: gently clenching and releasing fists or leg muscles to bleed off some of that tension.
• Controlled breathing: try box breathing — inhale for four, hold for four, exhale for four, hold for four. Repeat. It takes 20 seconds and can reset the body’s panic response.
• Try a “physiological sigh” before you play: inhale through your nose, hold for a brief moment, take a second quick sip of air through your nose, then exhale slowly through your mouth. Do it two or three times. It triggers the vagus nerve, slows your heart rate and helps your body remember that you’re safe, and you’re ready to play.

Don’t explain it like you’re teaching neuroscience. Just show them what to do.

I’ve had kids walk into their next performance and use these things. They may still mess up a few notes, but they could at least walk out with their head up.

Reframe the Fear

It’s difficult to convince a kid of this, but nerves are not a red flag. Yes, they feel awful — but they mean that the student cares. That’s it. We can remind them that wanting something to go well, and being afraid it might not, is a sign of investment, of engagement, of trying.

Keep in mind that if your students think nervousness means they’re not ready, they’ll start avoiding anything that matters to them. That’s why I tell my students, “Nerves aren’t failure. They’re proof that this matters to you.”

In my experience, the quietest kids — the ones who downplay everything — are usually the ones who care the most. The nerves hit them hard because they’re invested. And when they fall apart, it doesn’t mean they didn’t prepare. It means they didn’t know what to do with all that adrenaline once the door closed.

Finally, share your own experience. My kids have heard my stage fright stories. I tell them that the only reason I get through a concert now is because my back is to the audience. Humanizing yourself will help kids relate, and it helps them understand that this will not be an overnight process.

Some Kids Will Still Bomb

Even if you do everything right, some students will walk in and totally wipe out. They’ll come out embarrassed, blaming themselves, maybe even ready to quit.

That’s when it’s your job to be honest and grounded. Don’t say, “It was fine,” because it wasn’t. Say something like, “That didn’t go how you wanted, huh? Let’s talk about what felt different and what we can try next time.”

One of my students once said, “I don’t even remember walking out on the stage and playing.”

We talked about how that’s literally true. The body takes over — and if you haven’t practiced that moment, it’s a rough ride. So, we did what musicians do best — practice. Practiced everything from the walk on stage, the bow, the performance, to leaving the stage.

They tried it again, and it still wasn’t perfect, but they walked out saying, “I remembered where I was this time.”

Make it about the process, not the result. Because that kid who just bombed? They already feel small. What they need is someone who won’t shrink them further. And maybe, eventually, they’ll be the kid who teaches someone else how to walk into the room and play.

Settling Down

I never told my mom about what I did that day. I had plenty more performances after it. Naturally, my nerves started to settle the more I played, but it took a while. There was no magic fix — just a whole lot of trial and error. Grinding. Practicing. Experience.

When we got home that afternoon, she said exactly what a parent should say, “You did a good job today. I’m glad you did this.”

Then she paused. “By the way, have you seen my Chicago Bulls cup?”