Passing the Self-Doubt Milestone

Some months back, I read an article about imposter syndrome recently that really hit home. In summation, imposter syndrome is largely built on self-critical and rigid perfectionism. It made me recall that, when I was applying for this scholarship, I’d been hesitant because I felt someone else could make better use of it.

Clearly, I was wrong, since the committee chose me. With their decision in hand, I headed off to Carnegie Mellon for their week-long summer workshop. It would be the first time I’d be coming back since getting my certification, and after a summer of intense teaching in 2024, I wanted very much to be a student again and see how I felt and whether anything had changed.

The answer was both yes and no. Yes in the sense that I was now approaching the work from a higher vantage point and was taking in the classes more as a pedagogical observer than as a student on the floor. I was better able to dissect how each teacher approached their subjects and how they scaffolded lessons; in effect, my court vision had broadened and I could see the trees in the forest. I scribbled notes between classes and thought about how I might step into my teachers’ points of view for the classes I would be teaching the week after the workshop.

What hadn’t changed was the joy of the work. The longer I do this, the more fanatical I become about moving and expressing with one’s body, especially in communication and collaboration with others. We listen; we react; we move; we create music; we laugh and have a good time. It’s hard work, but I return to class over and over to lift my burdens off my shoulders. It’s this experience I chase for my students every time I walk into the classroom: I want to hear exclamations of “What?! It’s over already?!” and “That was so fun!” and “I didn’t know music could be like this!”

2025 was a hard year. I came to Pittsburgh after teaching Dalcroze at a piano camp, sandwiching the workshop between it and a strings camp. I wasn’t sure if I had done well with the students at piano camp (though they’d enjoyed themselves and come up with so many hilarious collaborative movement ideas in our short time together) and I was worried I’d lost my ability to have emotions under the stress of family issues, teaching, getting ready for a book launch, planning a conference, and the events of the world at large. I despaired that I wouldn’t be able to connect to music and to others when it felt like people were growing further and further apart.

But then, on the first day of class at WQED, where Fred Rogers used to record Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood, I played “It’s You I Like” and drew the attention of another student. We smiled at each other, emotional over the significance of playing a Mr. Rogers song in the Land of Make-Believe. Another student approached, curious about the chords, wanting to know what they were. And suddenly we were all three bent over the keyboard, teaching one another the progression and noodling around with voicings, connecting over good, timeless music.

Being back in Dalcroze class was a reminder that we are built to work with one another, not separately. (Even after I sprained my ankle partway through the week and had to sit out of class. Maybe it was a blessing in disguise: I had an excuse to stay put and study my teachers instead of dropping everything and joining the group.) We are meant to reach out, to experience as a group, to iterate upon and expand ideas together. Art doesn’t happen in a vacuum, and neither does life. Connection is our tool when building something grand.

Also, perhaps more critically, I relearned that imposter syndrome has a hard time asserting itself when others are ready and willing to receive ideas and give them back without judgment. It has a hard time asserting itself when students are laughing and creating together and wanting to come back to class. I’ve affirmed for myself that I, the student, have now become the teacher, and though there’ll still be nerves and overpreparation, I’ll take a seat at the piano with my worries weighing a little less upon me.