Fail Spectacularly Beanie and her birds anoxia definicion

I mean, I was in the chess club in middle school, you guys. And I placed second at the end of the year tournament. This is not a drill. So it should come as no surprise to you that my extracurricular activities of choice skewed more in the direction of the arts rather than in the world of sports and athletics. And so, I was in choir. I started school choir as early as they anxiety’d let me (which was seventh grade, I think) and fell in love with singing and performing.

In high school, choir became a defining part of my identity. I was in deep. Four out of seven of my class periods in junior year were held in the choir room. I loved that room. I ate lunch there (yes, with friends, why do you ask?).


I met people there who are still my friends today. I learned a lot life lessons in that room as well. One that I’ll always remember was taught to me by our choir director who had a propensity towards teaching life lessons in connection with music. (singing in a group is the best way to learn about life. I’ll die on that hill)

One of the choirs I belonged to was called bel canto; a small women’s choir that was made up of 30 or so female singers. I had the opportunity to part jump in that choir; I sang whatever was needed the most, so I had the chance to learn every part from first soprano down to second alto. It was a wonderful learning experience and my musicality grew exponentially that year. The choir director, christopher borges, spent a lot of time teaching us all to sing boldly. Many of the girls were anxiety attack treatment without medication shy or hesitant to sing, especially if they thought they might hit a wrong note. I was among them frequently. I didn’t want to sing something unless I knew it would come out right and so if I got to an unfamiliar part, I’d turn the volume down substantially until I’d mentally worked out the part. But mr. Borges would stop us when he noticed that happening.

This made great logical sense, but my pubescent brain just could not be convinced to sing my mistakes loudly! How mortifying. I was a section panic attack symptoms nausea leader, which meant that I was being counted on to know my part better or at least as well as others in my group so that I could help them when they struggled. I couldn’t ever let myself make a loud mistake.

That day lives on in my memory as one of the most mortifying auditions I’ve ever experienced. I was so determined and felt confident(ish…I mean, how confident are slightly chubby 15-year-old girls on average?) and had been practicing. It’s the biggest irony of my life that I both adore and am terrified by singing in public. My heart was beating, my palms were sweating and I was sitting on the choir steps, waiting for my turn. My face was hot. I’d listened to several variations of the solo and had kind of made up my own (mr. Borges suggested we try and make it ‘ours’) and then, it was my turn.

The first line was okay, but then came the next line where I improvised an embellishment and I tripped all over myself vocally. I loudly and proudly belted out the worst set of notes you could possibly imagine and then it was over. I wanted to die. The air was thick with that kind of silence that happens when your peers are laughing internally and trying to be kind simultaneously because they’re grown up enough to know they shouldn’t be blatantly rude, but young enough that they really want to be. They clapped politely and some of them snickered. I sat postanoxic encephalopathy down and put my head in my hands, forcing myself not to make it worse by crying in front of everyone.

Now, I’m coming at this from an adult perspective and realizing that I got that solo out of an attempt for that director to teach us a lesson. I clearly hadn’t sung well. I clearly didn’t deserve it on the merits of having succeeded vocally. But I had taken a risk. And he was rewarding that risk; that willingness to step outside of my comfort zone and try something new even when it meant I might crash and burn. He rewarded the failure by allowing me the chance to try again and succeed.

I credit that singular moment with my ability now to sing in front of audiences. Terrified though I am to do it, I physically can, and voluntarily do fairly regularly. If he had moved past that moment and severe hypoxic brain injury recovery stories not given me the solo (as he was well within reason to have done, let me just tell you) it’s very likely that I would have been mentally stuck there and might never have given myself a chance to do anything like that ever again.

That moment of failure gave way to many future failures; vocally, educationally, professionally, personally. I’ve attempted and failed many, many times at all kinds of things. But I keep trying! And I try really hard to remember that not trying doesn’t mean not failing, it just means never succeeding. Sometimes, you have to fail loud and proud for all the world to hear in order to really succeed later.

So here’s what happened: I had this idea a few months ago. This enormous, exciting, wonderful idea. This idea where you go, “why doesn’t that exist yet??” and you really start thinking about it and researching it and you think, “we should make this into a thing,” and so you take the nanoxia deep silence 3 test idea to your business-savvy husband and he is equally enthused, and you tell your close circle of family and friends and they are in full support because they want to buy it someday. And so you meet with professionals who point you in the right directions and give you sound advice about how to make this idea a reality, and you start working on protecting your idea with a patent and writing down a plan of action for bringing this thing to fruition and the excitement is building as you get closer and closer to maybe seeing this thing launch.

And you conduct some preliminary market research and hundreds of people take your survey (thank you SO MUCH for your help, everyone) and you find out that people are really annoyed by the same problem you were and that almost no one knows of any other way to handle the problem and that your idea is super marketable and potentially worth a lot of money and then…hundreds of survey participants later you find out: this idea? This wonderful, big, fantastic idea… it already exists. It’s a thing. Amazon sells it. Wanna see what I was going to create but someone already did?

Yep. Spray-on diaper rash ointment. You’d never heard of it? Me neither. And I didn’t find it in walmart or in target or in smith’s or on a long list of patented diaper rash ointment products that I read through on the united states patent site. But you guys. I never googled it. WHY?! Why didn’t I consider the fact that it might be online only and not in stores anoxic brain injury survivor stories? Sigh.

And the worst part of it all is that now I’ve had hundreds of people take the survey who are now curious about what we’re concocting. People I’ll probably never be able to contact or explain it to. It’s like I set a flag out on our front yard, advertising a titillating secret project and then had to randomly remove the flag so that now when cars define anxious pass by, they’ll go, “wait. Where’s the flag? Why was it there in the first place? WHAT IS THE SECRET? I think the people that live there might be cray-cray,”

Or maybe people just won’t care that much. One can hope. But it doesn’t stop me from feeling embarrassed. It’s like I’m in high school, auditioning for that solo all over again and sitting down on the choir steps, defeated and embarrassed at having been witnessed in my defeat. And this time, there’s no benevolent third party who’ll give us the ‘solo’ because the solo has already been taken. Stupid boogie bottoms! Why’d your name have to be so darn perfect, too? We’re fighting… but I’m straight up buying some.