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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