It would be so much easier if I could do everything perfect—unfortunately I can’t. A week ago, I was singing a solo in church and hit a wrong note. Then, so focused on my flub, I forgot the entire phase I was supposed to sing. Now this doesn’t embarrass me as much as it angers me. I had been shooting for perfect. I had practice, memorized the piece, and felt like I’d put in the time for perfection to be possible.

Lamenting to my mom over the whole debacle I told her my days of singing were over.

Of course, drama queen that I am, my mom reminded me I pretty much came out of the womb singing. I wouldn’t be happy if I gave it up completely.

“But it’s not fair. It used to be so easy,” I said.

In her wisdom my mom reminded me it was never easy. I spent hours in rehearsals, performing in plays, choir groups, and voice lessons.

She was right—singing every once in a blue moon wasn’t going to cut it. I may not have the kind of time I used to spend toward this talent, but if I attempted to put myself out there a little more often, my performances would improve. It’s just my poor church congregation that’s going to suffer while I work out the kinks.