Most people who follow my music journey on social media would never guess, but I deal with intense imposter syndrome and performance anxiety. It’s ironic because performing is my lifeline, and my main source of happiness, but it’s also what terrifies me the most. The passion that fuels me can sometimes feel like a double-edged sword, driving me to give everything I have and leaving me overwhelmed in the process. I’ve been working on myself for years and seeking help through therapy to learn how to manage these feelings.
This summer, I faced one of the biggest challenges of my life: singing at Fenway Park in front of 37,000 people. It was a dream come true, but it also ignited a firestorm of anxiety inside me. I knew I had to confront this fear head-on. When I found out in May that I would be performing at Fenway, I was filled with a mix of excitement and sheer panic. The enormity of the event weighed on me, but I was determined not to let fear win. For two months leading up to the performance, I dedicated myself to mental preparation as much as vocal training. Every day, I would sit down with my journal and vividly imagine the performance. I wrote down every detail—how I would feel, the sound of my voice resonating through the stadium, the audience’s reaction. I created a mental blueprint of success, a “fake memory” that I could cling to in the actual moment.
Learning the national anthems was also a new challenge for me. I wanted to respect the tradition while also making it my own. I received all sorts of advice; some people told me not to do runs and sing it exactly as written, while other people told me to add my flavor and go crazy with it. I ended up listening to my gut and just stayed true to myself. I knew some people wouldn’t like my version, and that’s okay; I wasn’t there to please everyone, I was there to be authentically me. The day of the performance arrived, and surprisingly, I felt more excited than anxious, because I had done the work. However, when I arrived at soundcheck, I was really thrown off balance. There were no monitors or in-ears available, and the echo in the stadium meant I could only hear my voice trailing behind me! I panicked. For a moment, it felt like all my preparation was slipping away. When I got home, my roommate tried to reassure me, but I was terrified. I worried that I would mess up in front of thousands, that all my hard work would be for nothing. Yet, I knew I couldn’t let fear take over. I took a deep breath, gathered my strength, and decided to simply trust myself. Walking onto that field was surreal. It felt like stepping into a dream. I knew those who mattered most to me—my parents, my best friends, my cousin from Spain and his wife and my voice professor from Berklee were all there. I felt an overwhelming sense of support and love. And in that moment, I wasn’t thinking about the 37,000 people watching. It was just me, doing what I love, as if I were singing in a small, intimate venue. My heart raced as I started to sing, but my mind was calm. It was an incredible feeling—being nervous yet centered, vulnerable yet strong. And when I finished singing, a wave of relief and pride washed over me. I did it. I smiled, knowing that I had given my all, even without the usual comforts of monitors or in-ears. As I walked off the field, people stopped me to congratulate me. I felt a deep sense of happiness, not just because I had faced my fear, but because I had connected with the audience.
That’s why I do what I do—to make people feel, to bring a moment of joy into their lives.
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This story has been posted simultaneously here and on the Section 36 Music blog. To learn more about Rebecca, be sure to check out her website and follow her on Instagram.
