THE PERFORMANCE I THOUGHT WOULD MEAN "I MADE IT!"
If you had asked me early in my career when I would know I had "made it" as a music educator, I would not have hesitated.
I had it all mapped out.
A superior rating at contest. A standing ovation performance. That one concert where everything clicks—intonation, balance, musicality—and you walk off stage thinking: That's it! That's what I've been chasing.
That was the finish line. I was sure of it.
When you're young in this profession, fresh out of college, that's what it looks like from the outside. You see great programs, great performances, trophy cases, and ratings sheets, and you think: If I can get there, I'll know I've arrived.
Eventually, if you stay in it long enough, you do get there.
I have been fortunate to have more than one of these such events, but one really sticks out in my mind.
You know the kind. The kids were locked in. The sound was inspiring. Musical moments actually felt… musical. I didn't conduct as much as I sort of just steered. It was one of those rare experiences where I was in it and watching it happen at the same time.
We finished. Applause. That glance from the kids where everyone knows: Yeah, that was good.
And for a moment—maybe even a few days—I felt it.
I'm here. This is it.
Then something strange happened. We went back to rehearsal.
The performance I had built up in my mind over the years faded faster than I expected. Not because it wasn't meaningful, but because it became normal.
I am sure I had similar aspirations when I started speaking. Dreams of a packed house, at a prestigious convention where every anecdote lands, every story sings, and every joke has people in tears.
These are the things I thought would define my career - and they did. But, as soon as you do it, it becomes "done." A memory and a stepping stone on a journey. And once you've done it, your brain does this very helpful and very annoying thing: it immediately shows you the next version of it.
A better performance. A harder piece. A stronger group. A higher score.
A bigger crowd, a more prestigious event, a louder ovation.
The line moves.
I am sure I'm not alone in thinking...
Shouldn't I be more satisfied? Shouldn't that moment hold more weight? I mean… we got the rating. We had the performance. We did the thing. Isn't that what I wanted?
Then, after you stay in the profession long enough, you start to notice something. The best teachers you know—the ones with the strongest programs, the most consistent results—they don't act like they've "made it."
You realize it's not because they're never satisfied. It's because they've grown to need the affirmations no longer. They are self-aware enough to know when they have done something of note and when they haven't. The external validations are nice, but not needed.
I wanted perfect performances, top ratings, and external validation.
Don't get me wrong—those things still matter. They're part of the process. They reflect real work.
But they're not the finish line.
Because now, the moments that stay with me look different. They're quieter—they're mine and mine alone. I don't need to share them. I don't need them to be public. I want them to be authentic.
It's the rehearsal where something clicks—not just musically, but personally. It's watching a group become something more than a group.
And here's the part that younger me would not have understood:
Those moments don't come with trophies.
There's a line I wish I had heard earlier in my career: the line moved because you moved.
What I actually want now is something harder to measure and impossible to judge at a contest: a classroom (workshop) where students grow as people, a lasting message with real impact, and experiences that students and teachers remember long after they forget the repertoire.
The strange thing is, I don't think the moving finish line is a problem anymore.
I think it's the point.
I am comfortable with the movement. Not intimidated by the lack of permanence. I embrace the anonymity of the chance and the achievement.
Because if you ever truly felt like you had "arrived" in this profession, you'd probably stop growing.
And this job—on its best days—is about growth.
Not just for students.
For us.
So yes, I still want great performances. I still want those moments where everything comes together, and I walk off stage knowing it mattered.
However, I don't expect that moment to define anything anymore.
Because I know what happens next.
I get back on a plane and start over again in a new city, with new students, new obstacles, and new opportunities.
Progress. And that is enough now.
Have a great week friends...
Scott