The Space Between Doubt and Beginning

Hi there,

On Friday evening, I sat in the audience at the Spark Theater Festival in New York City waiting for my dance to begin.

I'd been carrying a strange weight all day. That familiar creative apprehension — the one that whispers:

Does this piece actually work? Did I make what I meant to make? What if it doesn't land the way I imagined?

You may know some version of this feeling. The gap between the vision in your head and its actual realization. And the uncertainty that lives in between.

On the train to the theater, I noticed my mind running an old script — the one that says it's not enough, you're not ready, maybe you should have done more. I've heard that voice many times over the years.

Maybe you have too.

But this time, I caught it.

I took a breath and reminded myself: This story isn't true. It's just familiar.

I decided to show up anyway. Not demanding confidence of myself that I didn't feel — but just staying present. Open to whatever was about to happen.

•••

The lights went down. The music started.

And then — a small wobble. The dancers couldn't hear their opening music cue. The first minute felt uncertain.

I was sitting in the audience, not on stage. I couldn't do anything physically. But something in me knew I had to hold the space. So I grounded my feet into the floor, softened my breath, and silently held the vision: This dance works. These dancers are ready. Let it come through.

Within moments, something shifted. I felt it wash through my whole body — as if I was dancing with them, even from my seat.

And then the piece landed. The dancers found each other. The movement became alive.

Afterward, they told me they'd felt it too — a connection, an energy that carried them through.

When it was over, I started to cry.

Not because it was perfect. It wasn't.

But because I suddenly knew: This isn't an ending. This is a beginning.

I looked at what I'd made — something more complex and layered than I'd even realized — and thought: How did I even make that?

And underneath all the doubt, a quiet voice said:

I'm not done.

•••

I share this with you because I think we often stand at these thresholds — moments where the old script wants to convince us it's over, we've failed, we're not enough.

But sometimes, what feels like falling short is actually the first draft of something bigger.

Sometimes the wobble at the beginning is just the thing finding its footing.

And sometimes, showing up — even when you're uncertain — is the whole practice.

If you're standing at one of those thresholds right now, I see you.

Keep going.