The Performing Life

Trading the Pressure to Perform for the Freedom of Living for an Audience of One

Whether it’s kids nervously stepping onto a stage at the school talent show, professional athletes sprinting down the field, an employee sitting through a quarterly review, or a group of friends dressing to impress for a night out—performance is everywhere. From a young age, we’re conditioned to perform, to measure ourselves, to seek approval. Sometimes it's explicit, like in exams or recitals; other times, it’s unspoken but still felt, like when we craft our social media posts or strive to be the best version of ourselves for others to see.

Some people come alive through performance. The spotlight energizes them. It’s where they find their rhythm, their purpose, the thrill of giving their all. But for others—like me—the stage feels like a trapdoor. The pressure to “show up"“as something extraordinary weighs heavier than the joy of participating. If you’ve ever felt that pit of dread before you have to present or be seen, you know what I mean.

The Act of Disappearing

I’ve never thrived in the spotlight. As a kid, I was painfully shy—more than shy, really. I was the kind of child who, if given the chance, would blend into the wallpaper at a party, hoping no one would notice me.

My mother, with all the good intentions in the world, thought the best way to help me come out of my shell would be to enrol me in a modelling class. I was probably three at the time. Let’s just say my modelling career didn’t take off. I froze on that stage, a perfect human statue. While other kids strutted their stuff, I sat paralyzed, fully convinced that if I stayed still long enough, I’d become invisible.

Fortunately, my mom got the hint, and that was the end of my modelling days.

But the world of performance didn’t stop there.

Childhood, it turns out, is filled with performances of all kinds. In Tae Kwon Do, I had to demonstrate my forms in front of judges—terrifying. My brain would blank every time. In ballet, there were recitals, where dancing felt more like surviving a mild heart attack. Piano recitals, tests at school… each felt like a gauntlet I had to endure, rather than a moment to shine.

To this day, I still vividly remember the knot in my stomach before each recital, the deep desire to disappear rather than be judged for how well—or poorly—I performed. If this sounds familiar, take a deep breath with me. Seriously. In, and out. In, and out. Because the truth is, performance anxiety is real, and for many of us, it’s rooted in something deep and primal: the fear of rejection.

The Trouble with Performing

Here’s the tricky part. In our culture, we’re often told that performing well is the key to being loved, accepted, and admired. We see it everywhere—on magazine covers, in award shows, and on Instagram. Superstars seem to have it all: the applause, the admiration, the spotlight. They shine, and in their brilliance, it seems they’ve found the ultimate prize: love and belonging.

I’ve fallen into that trap myself.

I’ve danced, hoping for praise.

I’ve auditioned, hoping to be chosen, to belong.

I’ve pushed myself to get good grades, hoping that my achievements would earn the approval of my parents, my teachers, my friends.

I didn’t just want to be good at things—I wanted to be loved for being good at things.

But all of this performing?

It drained me.

I’m someone who would much rather hide in the corner than step onto the stage, but those deep longings—for love, affection, and belonging—were stronger than my desire to remain invisible. So I would be brave, put on a smile, and power through:

“Maybe if I nail this, I’ll finally be noticed.”

“Maybe if I do this perfectly, they’ll like me more.”

It was exhausting, and truth be told, I hated it.

I wish I could say there was a moment when it all clicked, when I suddenly became confident and performing no longer felt like a burden. But here’s the honest truth: I still get that sinking feeling in my chest before speaking in front of people. Even now, as I write this, I feel a little nervous energy bubbling up. Performance, for me, still comes with anxiety.

An Audience of One

But here's where things began to shift for me—there is one audience that matters more than any other. One who sees me, who delights in me, even when I don’t feel like I’m “performing” well. There is a deeper truth, a deeper connection available, and it’s not rooted in applause or external validation.

I’m learning that there is One who embraces me every time I show up, whether I’m standing on a stage, sitting in a chair, or just trying to make it through the day. He doesn’t measure me by my performance. He doesn’t rank me based on how well I do. He simply loves me, as I am.

Os Guinness says it perfectly:

“A life lived listening to the decisive call of God is a life lived before one audience that trumps all others—the Audience of One … I live before the audience of One—before others, I have nothing to gain, nothing to lose, nothing to prove.”

This has become a grounding truth for me.

The apostle Paul embodied and modelled this posture for us. He reminded the Galatians that he lived for an audience of one, saying:

Am I now trying to win the approval of human beings, or of God? Or am I trying to please people? If I were still trying to please people, I would not be a servant of Christ.

When I remember that I am living for the approval of One, I can exhale. I can rest in the knowledge that I am loved, regardless of how well I perform. And this is a love that casts out fear.

When I think of the prodigal son, running home to his father, ragged and broken, I imagine the father’s wide-open arms. He doesn’t care that his son failed. He doesn’t care about the performance. He simply rejoices in the return. That’s the kind of love we all need—the kind that meets us with joy, not judgment.

In Christ, we are already accepted. We are already loved. There’s nothing we can do to earn it, and nothing we can do to lose it. His love is steady, unchanging, and overflowing.

Letting Go of Performance

So, what do we do with this longing for connection? If we’re tired of performing, maybe it’s time to open ourselves up to the One who is already standing there, waiting with a smile, ready to give us the standing ovation we’ve been longing for—not because of what we’ve done, but because of who we are. Maybe it’s time to rest in this promise from Zephaniah:

The Lord your God is in your midst, a mighty one who will save; he will rejoice over you with gladness; he will quiet you by his love; he will exult over you with loud singing.

Maybe it’s time to lay down the burden of performance and rest in the truth that we are seen, known, and loved beyond measure. Whether we perform or not, God is with us, rejoicing over us, loving us, singing proudly—we belong. In this love, we are finally free—to be ourselves, to fail, to try again—knowing that nothing can separate us from his love and delight.