
Before I became a clinical psychologist, I was a concert pianist.
I performed around Australia and even overseas, as a soloist at concerts. For me, every performance began the same way: a hush would fall over the audience, the lights would dim, and I'd feel a familiar surge of nerves.
My heart would race, my hands would tremble ever so slightly, and a wave of anxiety would wash over me as I walked towards the piano.
Watch: Tim Minchin opens up about performance anxiety on Mamamia's 'But Are You Happy' podcast. Post continues below.
For years, I thought these feelings were a sign of something being "wrong" — something to overcome or suppress if I wanted to succeed as a musician.
But over time, I began to see those nerves differently. That anxiety wasn't there to sabotage me; it was there to remind me how much I cared about what I was doing. Nerves were telling me music mattered, that I wanted to connect with my audience, and that I was pushing myself to do something meaningful.
In fact, those emotions sharpened my focus and drove some of my best performances.
This realisation changed not only how I approached performing, but also how I understood emotions in everyday life. As I transitioned from the world of music to studying emotions professionally as a psychologist, I realised that all our emotions — whether it's anxiety before a big moment, sadness after a loss, or anger at injustices — aren't necessarily problems to be solved.