The endless months of practice were over; this will be the real thing. I walked slowly onto the stage, clutching my violin with clammy cold hands. Below me were five judges with expressionless faces regarding me. Taking a deep breath, I raised my bow, closed my eyes, and began to play.

My day started out with me bolting from my bed in the middle of a nightmare. I looked out the curtained window; it was still dark outside. Go back to sleep, I told myself, but I knew the effort was futile – there was no way I could sleep when the prospect of the recital loomed intimidatingly over me. Indeed, in my nightmare was I failed the concert in front of a mass of faceless, laughing people. I looked over to my nightstand, where the luminescent alarm clock read 5:16. I sighed, and swung my feet off the bed, heading to my music stand, which held the music sheets I would be playing later today. As the only fifth-grader to represent my school orchestra in the competition, I felt that I had a lot of pressure to succeed. However, my violin teacher tried to console me, which aggravated my anxiety even more. What if I mess up in the middle of playing or worse, completely forget the music? My conscience always nagged my in a tiny voice. And so, I was resolved to reserve two hours of each afternoon to practice my piece, which was quite long and difficult. By the end of my insane practice, I felt like I knew my music forward and backwards.

And today is finally the day.

Even though my violin was tucked in the case, polished and tuned, I still looked over my recital piece and fingered the notes in the air. Closing my eyes, I almost heard the notes playing by themselves. After reviewing the music at least twice from beginning to end, I decided to go back on my bed and wait for the morning with dread.

“Hurry up! You don’t want to miss your breakfast; it gives you energy,” I hazily saw my mother through a film of bright sunlight. “Come on,” she said as she lifted my covers and practically dragged me out of bed. “You know what to wear. Get the clothes on and take your violin. We’ve got a long way to drive!” With the air of a lamb led to the slaughterhouse, I meekly followed my mother downstairs and nibbled the food. I was vaguely aware of the fact that Mom made my favorite dishes for breakfast – coffee, scrambled eggs, and fresh pancakes drizzled with syrup. Before I knew it, my parents were putting on their coats and heading outside to unlock the car. I hurried after them, wishing with all my heart that this would be over soon.

The entire car ride was spent with studying the music in my head, which I knew all too well to be concerned about. Nonetheless, I reviewed it, because I knew I would go mad with worry if I did not. The ride to the recital hall was over, and everything happened in a blur. My mother miraculously got my ticket number minutes later. I was the fifth in my age group to go. Fifth, I reassured myself. Things could get worse. With that thought in mind, I waited for my turn, which eventually came too fast. “Don’t worry sweetheart,” my mother smiled as my name was called, “I know you will do absolutely fine. After all, you spent all those longs hours practicing for this, right?”

As soon as I heard that, I knew, as sure as I knew anything, that my mother was right. The endless weeks of practice were over; this will be the real thing. I walked slowly onto the stage, clutching my violin with clammy cold hands. Not far below me were five judges with expressionless faces regarding me. Taking a deep breath, I raised my bow, closed my eyes, and began to play.