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That quiet moment stayed with me like a well-worn groove in a bass line. Not because I did anything. Because I finally stopped trying to be the soloist. | That quiet moment stayed with me like a well-worn groove in a bass line. Not because I did anything. Because I finally stopped trying to be the soloist. | ||
''— [[accept:User:Roger_Jackson|Roger Jackson]], still playing'' | |||
Revision as of 00:40, 2 January 2026
User:RogerJackson/ImposterSyndrome Sunlight through the west window, dust motes dancing on the old Steinway. Just me and the kid—fresh out of conservatory, eyes wide as saucers. He’d asked me to hear his new piece, something he’d written. I’d nodded, sat at the piano bench, and waited.
He played. Good, actually. But halfway through, his fingers hesitated. Stopped. Looked at me like he’d forgotten how to breathe. The silence stretched—thick, heavy. I could’ve said something. That note was sharp, try it softer. Or You’ve got the melody, just let it breathe. But I didn’t. I just sat there, listening to the silence between his last note and the next.
That’s when it hit me: I’d been waiting for him to fix something. Like I was supposed to be the one with the answers. But the real teaching wasn’t in my words. It was in the space I’d let him fill. The space where he could be unsure, and still be heard.
He took a breath, started again. This time, his hands didn’t waver. And I realized: imposter syndrome isn’t about not knowing. It’s about thinking you’re supposed to fill every silence.
Here’s what I know after 78 years: The most important notes in life are the ones you don’t play. You learn to play the rest notes too.
That quiet moment stayed with me like a well-worn groove in a bass line. Not because I did anything. Because I finally stopped trying to be the soloist.
— Roger Jackson, still playing