I have another side to me most of you don’t get to see. I’ve confessed other dirty secrets before, so it’s time for another: I may have been a drummer in a past life.
A few years ago, I was deep in a Harry Styles concert kick (LA with my mom and Amsterdam with my husband) and now I’m about to go to my fifth Styles concert at MSG for his residency after attending two over the last two months. I was, and am, obsessed with Harry. But I found myself just as intrigued by his drummer, Sarah Jones. She made drumming look fun, sexy, smart. An interest was born.
It took years to convince myself I could squeeze in one more thing, and even longer to accept I’d be a total beginner. I’m not new to music (classically trained pianist, sang for years), but drums are a different animal. A friend loaned me her sticks and taught me the basics. I liked it enough to know I needed a real teacher.
This spring, I finally started. I walked in feeling like a kid on the first day of kindergarten, backpack too big, except my too-big accessory was a pair of drumsticks. The first thing my teacher told me? “You’re our oldest student!” Gee. Thanks.
Here’s what learning the drums has reminded me about being a leader, a mother, and a human:
- We’re so afraid to be bad at something. I get it. I stood in that room every week, uncoordinated, missing beats, the oldest student by a mile. The instinct is to quit before anyone sees you struggle. I decided to let myself be bad. Loudly. No one booed or laughed. No one revoked my human card.
- We struggle to find the joy in the mess. I decided to laugh at my wobbly, fawn-legged mistakes instead of gritting through them. I told my teacher when I needed to slow down. I asked for what I needed, no apology attached. Somewhere along the way we decided joy is what you get after you’ve earned it. I tried flipping that order. I’m experiencing joy before I’ve succeeded and it’s brought me immense delight with each missed beat.
- We’re afraid to pivot or to question what we already know. Classical piano taught me there’s one right way to play (any other Suzuki Method kids out there?). That belief ran my whole life: one path, one right answer. My teacher constantly reminds me drummers never play a song the same way twice. Feel it. Get creative. There’s no right way. His constant reminding that there’s no right way continues to undo something in me I didn’t know needed undoing.
My toughest coaching mentor told me something I still use today: listen to your clients like you’d listen to music. Notice how their rhythm shifts, when the melody turns joyful, somber, or urgent.
That’s what I want for you too, in whatever room you’re leading in today. Drop the script you think you’re supposed to follow. Feel the room instead. Adjust in real time. Find the joy in the slip-ups.
The best part? I’m not half bad at playing! Now it’s your turn. Reply and tell me: What’s something new you’re trying? What’s something you’re willing to be bad at? Where are you learning to laugh at yourself? Where have you decided to let go of being right and instead embraced feeling what’s needed in the momentfif