SUCCESS

“You gain strength, courage and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face.” ~Eleanor Roosevelt

There’s a quiet moment before the spotlight hits when everything in your body wants to run.

Your hands tremble. Your voice tightens. Your breath shortens, even though the room is still. You love what you do—you’ve trained, practiced, prepared—but suddenly, it’s like someone else is in your body. Your skills vanish. Your confidence implodes.

That’s the yips.

And if you’re an artist, musician, writer, teacher—anyone whose work lives in public view—you’ve probably met them too.

The First Collapse

For me, the first time the yips showed up, I was about ten years old, standing on a Little League pitcher’s mound. I had a strong arm and a real love for the game, so they made me the pitcher.

It felt like an honor—until it became a nightmare.

I couldn’t throw a strike. Not one. I walked batter after batter. The harder I tried, the worse it got. My coaches shouted. My teammates rolled their eyes. And worst of all, I didn’t know why it was happening. I knew how to pitch. I wanted to pitch. But my body wouldn’t cooperate.

My confidence didn’t just erode—it imploded.

That experience carved something into me, and years later, it returned in a different form—on stage, with a viola in my hands.

The Yips in Music

I had taken up guitar earlier and played in public a few times. A little nerves, sure, but nothing overwhelming. But the viola was different.

The viola wasn’t just an instrument—it was a commitment. I loved the sound, the subtlety, the range. But the moment I sat down to play chamber music or solo pieces—especially in front of discerning classical audiences—I froze.

My bow hand would shake uncontrollably. My tone would collapse. My breath shortened. My fingers, steady in rehearsal, betrayed me under pressure. It wasn’t just a little stage fright. It was full-body paralysis. And I wasn’t just nervous—I was ashamed.

I could feel the others around me adjusting their playing, trying to stay in sync, politely pretending not to notice the scraping sound of my trembling bow. I wasn’t just failing myself—I felt like I was slowly unraveling something beautiful we had built together.

That shame lasted longer than any applause ever could.

Eventually, I stopped performing. It hurt too much.

But Then, a Different Tune

What’s strange is that I can still play old-time fiddle music in public. Ozark waltzes, hoedowns, reels—I can play those in front of a crowd with energy and joy.

Why?

Because people are moving. They’re dancing. They’re smiling. There’s an exchange happening—call and response, energy to energy. No one’s looking to critique every phrase. They just want to feel alive.

That shift—from judgment to participation—made all the difference.

It was my first clue that the problem wasn’t just about nerves. It was about dissonance.

When Belief and Experience Clash

What I didn’t understand as a kid—but see now in myself, my students, and even my own children—is that the yips aren’t just performance anxiety. They’re the outward symptoms of cognitive dissonance: the mental and emotional strain that happens when who we believe we are doesn’t match what we’re experiencing.

This dissonance doesn’t just trip us up. It can make us doubt the very core of our identity. And in creative work, that doubt can be devastating.

Common Creative Cognitive Dissonances

Over the years—as a filmmaker, teacher, and musician—I’ve seen these patterns again and again:

1. “I’m passionate and skilled” vs. “I just froze in front of everyone.”

You know you’re good. But in that crucial moment, something inside shuts down. The disconnect feels like failure, even if it’s just fear.

2. “I believe in creative freedom” vs. “I censor myself when others are watching.”

We crave authenticity. But the moment we feel observed, we retreat into safe ideas and bland choices.

3. “I want to create something meaningful” vs. “No one will care about this.”

You believe in the work, but a voice in your head tells you it’s not important. That voice keeps you from finishing—or from starting at all.

4. “I value growth” vs. “I should already be good at this.”

Even lifelong learners fall into this trap. Especially those of us with experience. We forget how to be beginners again.

5. “I’m a creative person” vs. “I can’t seem to finish anything.”

The inner identity and the outer reality don’t match. That gap becomes shame—and shame leads to silence.

6. “I believe in collaboration” vs. “I don’t trust others with my ideas.”

You want input, but feel threatened by it. This tension keeps you isolated, even as you long for connection.

7. “I practice mindfulness” vs. “I push myself until I crash.”

You teach balance but live exhaustion. (I’ve done this one far too many times.)

How to Work with the Yips, Not Against Them

Here’s what I’ve learned after a lifetime of living with this pattern: You don’t conquer the yips by trying harder. You heal them by listening deeper.

That means meeting the fear—not with force, but with care.

Here’s how I begin again, every time:

1. Lead with compassion.

That part of you that’s scared? It’s also the part that loves what you’re doing. Be gentle. Speak kindly to yourself.

2. Accept the body’s message.

Trembling hands, dry mouth, racing thoughts—these are just signs that you care. Breathe through them. Don’t resist them. Let them pass like weather.

3. Reframe the story.

Not: “I choked.”
But: “I hit a growth edge.” Or: “I’m learning to stay present when it matters.” That shift matters.

4. Find reciprocal environments.

Play for dancers. Share writing with friends. Teach in spaces where people reflect, nod, laugh, respond. It’s hard to heal in front of a wall of silence.

5. Focus on presence, not perfection.

When I play fiddle now, I don’t aim to impress. I aim to connect. That intention rewires everything.

6. Return to joy.

What first drew you to your work? The sound? The rhythm? The curiosity? The spark? Go back there. That’s where your real voice lives.

A Life Beyond the Yips

These days, I still feel the yips. Sometimes when I teach. Sometimes when I perform. Sometimes when I write something that matters to me.

But now, I recognize them for what they are: a signal that I’m doing something vulnerable and real.

If you’re an artist, musician, teacher, maker—and you’ve gotten stuck—you’re not alone. And you’re not broken.

You’re simply standing at the edge of the gap between who you were and who you’re becoming.

The work is to stay in the room. Gently. Bravely. Again and again.

And little by little, you’ll find your way back—not to where you started, but to something deeper.

To a self that trusts its voice again. To a body that remembers how to move. To a joy that doesn’t depend on perfection.

To the quiet truth that you were never really lost at all.

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