The "Brené Brown Made Me Feel Things" Post
Warning! This is a vulnerable post. I don’t usually share my feelings with the Internet abyss, but this is an outpouring of feeling that I can finally articulate. I'm using this as a place to make sense of it.
I’m talking about shame. Professional Shame.
I know I’m late to the Brené Brown party, but I’m finally here. I recently listened to all 6-ish hours of The Power of Vulnerability over 2 days, and it rocked and is still rocking my world. I’m not sure why it took me this long. Maybe I was just resisting the inevitable. Perhaps deep down, I knew that these would be lessons that I needed to be ready for.
If you’ve ever seen or heard Brené Brown speak, you know that she is exceptionally engaging, funny, charismatic, and articulate. You laugh just as much as you learn, and you have so many “Oh! Me too!” moments when she shares personal anecdotes and stories from the research. It is incredible to hear her share such vulnerable stories so candidly in a way that unites the audience. You’re not laughing at her, you’re chuckling knowingly with her.
Over 6 hours, Brown frequently returns to the role of shame in our lives and the difference between shame and embarrassment. She emphasizes shames central role in the problems we have individually and collectively. I was shocked by my physical reaction to some of the explanations and stories of shame. I realized that these feelings have surrounded my music-making for years. But instead of shame, I've understood it as "not good enough."
I could write about this for years. But when did this start? I can’t think of the last interaction I’ve had with a colleague where someone said or did something that suggested my playing was worthy of shame. Yet, the voice inside me is constantly reminding me that I am not worthy.
How did it get like this?
The Power of Vulnerability made me realize that I feel shame when I don't win, or when I'm surrounded by musicians with fancier resumes, or even admitting to these feelings. I can feel myself flush with the shame of not achieving just writing that last sentence. I have never before considered any of these feelings as shame. I would simply turn the mirror around and chastise myself for not being better. Then, I would practice more, work harder, sign up for more “tests” and feel the same feelings. Shame was manifesting itself in a tight loop of never feeling good enough and always like I had to prove myself. I'm still tempted to slip into this cycle. It is like a terrible security blanket.
But why?
I am just starting to unpack these emotions and patterns, but I've realized that for many years I was taught to feel shame about my playing. I studied with the same violin teacher in high school as in graduate school. It wasn't until after I left his studio the second time that I realized he “motivated” me with shame. This is complicated because the relationship between a teacher and student is extremely personal, and the dynamic in a private lesson is never the same between two lessons or two students. As much as I'd like to think that I treat my students entirely equally, there will never be a uniform interaction between myself and each student that I teach. It is impossible. However, there is knowing a student and fostering a healthy working relationship. Then there is knowing a student and manipulating them.
I’m not sure if our interactions were as clouded when I was in high school and it escalated when I returned to his studio, or if it had always been like that. When I look back, I see the patterns that emerged out of working together over many years. Always, there was the idea that I had to be better, so I didn't embarrass myself or him. He mocked me in studio class in front of my peers. He would purposely embarrass and shame me in front of the string faculty. He told me it was my fault if I didn’t win an audition. He asked a guest artist to address the fact that I "freaked out" and couldn't control myself in performances (he actually said this at a masterclass while I was on stage).
I remember my cheeks flushing, and my knees locking as I braced against that public attack. In fact, while I often braced against it and – in public – appeared stable and unaffected, I was crumbling. When I played for him, his response was often, "Really? That's how you're going to play that?" or "Why are you playing like that? Nobody plays like that." He commented on my body, and he publicly criticized the clothes I wore. I was critiqued harshly if I followed my own musical (and eventually research) interests, so I started "whitewashing" my playing. I worked so hard to play only what was on the page. I removed my musicality and allowed him to tell me exactly how I should play the music. I realize now that I was bracing against him and putting up a wall for emotional safety.
I should have seen this as an indication of an unsafe learning environment. When we finally parted ways, it was not pretty, and I ultimately reported him to the dean of the music school. In our last interaction, he told me that I was too sensitive, and I always had been. I was so cut by that. I understood it to mean that I was weak. That I couldn’t’ handle it and all of my failures and shortcomings were my fault. I was ashamed. These feelings were coded into my violin playing. I left his studio and limped through the end of my Doctoral degree. I would never dare to diagnose him, but I realize now that he taught from a position of fear. His own shame tainted and tarnished his teaching, causing damage to his students. I’ve never typed this out before, and I’ve never spoken so boldly about this to the music community at large, but I know that I am not the only student he treated like this and I wonder if they harbor the same feelings that I do.
For years after leaving his studio, I did so much to prove to myself that I could do things. I could win auditions. I could perform. I could keep going. I was fine. I was over it. I was “healed.” I certainly was not too sensitive. But this nagging voice inside me was always reminding me of my shame. It would whisper, “You’ll never be able to play this. You’ll never be good enough to perform it, not like a real violinist,” and I would return to the shame and perfectionist cycle of continually working to prove myself. I was the most diligent technical exercise practicer, metronome user, and rule follower. But I was also a particular type of hard-work avoidant. I was the most diligent "don't express yourself" player, and in reality, that is freaking impossible…and really, what is the point?
This is about:
I’m not saying this book has made me a better violinist. I’m merely confessing to breathing a weird sigh of relief that I finally understand the feelings that surrounded my violin playing. My career. My profession. I'm guessing this must be similar to what it feels like to finally get a diagnosis after years of struggling. Like “oh my god, its not me. I’ve been trying so hard to fix a problem that is bigger than myself.”
This is not a story of assault. There was no predatory sexual behavior. This is not a story for the #MeToo movement. This is the realization that shame played a role in shaping me as a musician. I can finally see that. In my musical training, there are long patterns of associating failure with shame, and that is incorrect. Failure is something to learn from, not something to rip apart the joy of why you wanted to make music in the first place. I know that this teacher is not solely responsible for these feelings. But I also know that a mentor who motivates with shame is not helping his students grow.
About one year ago, I got my musical mojo back. Some things became crystal clear. Projects I had to work on, avenues of interest that I needed to explore, places I needed to go, people I needed to collaborate with suddenly leapt into focus. My purpose as a teacher became obvious; The most important thing I can do for my students is to create a safe place in their lives to develop, engage, and explore. Something that I now realize, shockingly, I had ripped to shreds every week of my life for years.
I have big goals that I finally feel ready for and in order to move forward, I have to shed this straightjacket. I realize this now. This is just phase one of phase one of phase one of the work I need to do.
It has been about a week since I finished the book, and I am now listening to Dare to Lead. I’m trying to pull all the pieces apart and examine them in an attempt to heal the cracks. I’m finally ready to make peace with this and use it to guide me, like a "what not to do" list. I will probably be unpacking this for years, and sometimes on this blog, but it is necessary. Musical shame is something I don’t wish on anybody. It is like a cancer of your joy. It eats away at what is beautiful about making music and leaves you feeling less than. And there is simply no place in this world for that type of disease.
I hope this resonates with you. I would love to know your story. Please share.