How performing taught me more about calm than therapy did

On what happens when there is nowhere to hide.

I started doing stand-up in 2016, which was the same year my marriage ended and I had a breakdown.

I didn’t walk onto a stage because I was in good shape, but because I wanted to talk about the funny things as well as the hard things, and I needed somewhere that combination of honesty and stubborn hope might be welcomed.

I found it. And I found a new love for life that would sustain me through some hard times.

What I didn’t expect though, was how much it would teach me about the thing I was also trying to learn in therapy (which I value enormously, continue to do, and am not about to poo on).

There’s something being on the stage with your stories and feelings does, that I haven’t found anywhere else.

And that is how to truly and sincerely be present, by learning how to stay in my body and not fly away with my fears when things get uncomfortable.

The room always knows.

The first thing performing teaches us is that an audience is an instrument we cannot deceive.

Most audiences are genuinely generous and want us to do well. That’s true regardless of whether it’s on a stage, behind a rostrum at a conference, or at the front of a meeting room. Sure, there’s the occasional jerk who feels differently, but they’re fewer in number than we might expect.

Audiences are sensitive to authenticity, and they register inauthenticity fast.

We very quickly learn the difference between being present and just pretending to be. Performed presence, where someone has learned their lines and delivers them according to their own pace and not in tune with the audience vibe, is slightly too smooth, slightly managed, the edges too clean. And it feels fake.

Genuine presence is different. It allows us to be a bit uncertain, and to pause while what we’ve just said permeates and the audience settles again.

It allows us to ad lib a little, to go off on a tangent we feel emerging, and end up somewhere unexpected. When we’re fully present and responding to how people are receiving us, the room relaxes. People lean in and they want more of us.

An audience is an instrument we can’t deceive.
They register inauthenticity before we’ve finished a few sentences.

I try and bring this to my professional work in both communications and mental health training. The people we talk to in the work we do are reading us more accurately than we know, and they can tell whether the signal is honest, or if you’re trying to pull one over them. And I love that.

Recovery, with commentary.

The second thing performing taught me is how to recover when I stumble, which I do, for I am but a mere human.

Things go wrong on stage, and regularly. I might lose the thread of a story, or skip over a section accidentally and have to quickly think on my feet about how to narratively time travel back and then time travel forwards again to catch up (as happened a couple of times in my recent shows at the Adelaide Fringe festival).

Sometimes an anecdote or joke is met with silence. Or I forget, mid-sentence, where I was going.

I’ve found that naming the stumble honestly tends to work better than rushing past it or pretending it didn’t happen.

‘That was so funny in my head, I’ll work on delivering it better tomorrow, and thank you for unintentionally giving me that direct feedback’ with a wry and honest smile.

The audience relaxes. The self-consciousness in the room dissolves. Because the performer just did the human thing: acknowledged what’s actually happening.

This is what recovery looks like in ordinary life too.

It’s rarely a smooth comeback. And self-flagellation is damaging and distancing.

We can just acknowledge that something didn’t go as planned, and that’s ok, so let’s continue. The honesty is far more settling and lets people breathe and smile, perhaps even give you the laugh you didn’t get a moment earlier.

Presence without performance.

The third thing is discovering that the goal on stage is never to appear calm… it’s to be present enough that calm becomes completely unnecessary.

When we’re genuinely present and connected with the audience, paying attention to them and where they’re at instead of our own internal management, something shifts. The self-consciousness recedes, the gap closes.

This is what I try to bring into my professional work. Putting attention outward towards the room I’m in, the people in it, how they’re receiving me, and what they’re showing in their face and body language.

Focussing on what’s actually happening, rather than what I wish was happening.

It doesn’t always work, and some days I’m managing rather than being fully present. But I know the difference now, and I know which one serves me and others better.

That knowledge came from the stage as much as anywhere else, and I love that I get to keep learning, connecting, and growing through doing something I really enjoy.

Three things to try.

1. Read the room before you try to change it.

Before your next significant conversation, spend sixty seconds attending to the people in it. Not preparing your opening. Just noticing: what’s the energy here? Who seems tense? Who seems open? Let what you notice decide how you begin.

2. Name the stumble.

Next time something goes a bit wobbly in a conversation, own it. ‘That sounded a bit different to what I meant it to’, or ‘I thought that’d make a better impression, sorry’. The less we armour over the stumble, the more human the exchange becomes.

3. Focus your attention outward.

In your next longish conversation, notice a moment where you’re tempted to monitor how you’re coming across, and redirect that attention to the other person (or people). What are their faces and body language saying? What are they not quite saying? Presence isn’t a feeling we generate. It’s attention we direct.