Article -
What an Open Mic Night Taught Me About Self-Imposed Pressure

What an Open Mic Night Taught Me About Self-Imposed Pressure

One recent evening, an open mic night unexpectedly reminded me of something I see regularly in founders, leaders and business owners.

Earlier in the day, my fiancé and I had attended an organised meet-and-greet before that was a fringe-event that branched off a main conference. To our happy surprise, we bumped into a woman we'd previously met through some workshops. Neither of us had expected the other to be there, so it was a lovely reunion.

Later that evening, a group of us arranged to go out for food together before heading back to the conference venue.

We were all planning to attend the open mic night anyway. It's one of those events that has developed a reputation for being welcoming, supportive and thoroughly entertaining. You never quite know what you're going to get.

Someone might sing a sea shanty.
Someone else might perform an Irish folk song.
There may be original poetry, humourous stories, reflections on nature, or tales of everyday life that are both funny and touching.
The material isn't usually a lecture, and it isn't especially serious. The emphasis is more on sharing than performing perfectly.

Musicians often arrive carrying guitars, accordions, frame drums, tin whistles or even bagpipes. Others use an instrument simply to keep rhythm while telling a story or reciting a poem.

The audience isn't there to judge. They're there to enjoy themselves and encourage whoever happens to be standing at the front of the room. In fact, some of the biggest laughs often come from performers responding to whatever is happening in the room.

If someone was singing 'What Shall We Do with a Drunken Sailor?' and the master of ceremonies signalled that they were running over time, it wouldn't be unusual for them to improvise:

♣ We've been told that our time is up now,
♣ We've been told that our time is up now,
♣ We've been told that our time is up now,
♣ Late on in the evening.

The audience would laugh, join in and the performer would take a bow. That's the spirit of the evening. Nobody expects perfection - it is simply an invitation to take part.

It was somewhere between ordering dinner and waiting for it to arrive that our friend mentioned she had been thinking about performing. She'd been practising a particular folk song for some time and was considering putting her name down. As much as she liked the idea, she wasn't entirely convinced she felt ready. Although she knew the audience would be supportive, there was still that familiar internal dialogue that many of us know only too well:

• What if I get it wrong?
• What if I forget the words?
• What if people don't like it?
• What if I'm not ready yet?

The performance itself would only have lasted a few minutes.
The anticipation had already lasted much longer.

As the evening unfolded, the restaurant service turned out to be slower than expected. Food took longer to arrive than anticipated. Conversations continued on. The clock kept ticking. Before long, another possibility emerged. We might arrive too late for her to put her name down at all.

At first glance, that sounds disappointing, yet I noticed something interesting: alongside the disappointment seemed to also be a degree of relief. If we arrived too late, the decision would be taken away from her. There would be no need to choose, no need to commit, and no need to walk onto the stage. The situation would have decided for her.

Eventually we arrived at the venue.

Just before the interval, the organiser announced that there might be some additional performance slots available. Suddenly the decision was back on the table. There was a surge of anticipation at the possibility. Gathering her courage, she went to speak to the organiser and ask whether there was still an opportunity to perform. A few minutes later she returned looking noticeably lighter.

"I've got the best of both worlds," she said.

She'd been placed on the reserve list, and if there was time, she'd perform. If there wasn't, she wouldn't. Simple.

The relief on her face was immediate. The pressure she'd been carrying seemed to soften almost instantly.

Nothing had changed about the song, the audience or the room, yet something had changed: the burden she had been carrying had become lighter.

As the evening continued, time eventually ran out. Her name wasn't called.

There was some disappointment, naturally, after all, she'd spent time preparing. She'd built up the courage to put her name forward. She'd mentally rehearsed what might happen.

And there was also relief and a more solid sense of possibility. The feared event hadn't happened, at least not yet.

What struck me afterwards was that many people would look at the evening and conclude that nothing happened, but I don't think that's true.

She didn't sing.
She didn't perform.
The audience never heard the song.

Something important did happen: she moved closer. She considered doing the thing that scared her. She sat with the discomfort. She travelled to the venue. She put her name on the list. She became publicly visible as someone willing to perform. She waited with the uncertainty.

In many ways, she'd already completed most of the journey. It was the dress rehearsal. The singing itself would only have been the final few minutes.

Watching this unfold reminded me of something I see regularly in founders, leaders and business owners. It's that the pressure they experience is often far greater than the thing itself.

Launching a new service.
Increasing prices.
Having a difficult conversation.
Posting online.
Speaking at an event.
Applying for a promotion.
Hiring their first employee.

The action itself is often manageable. What becomes exhausting is everything built around it.

That anticipation. Those imagined outcomes. The fear of rejection, and judgement, and getting it wrong.

Many capable people spend days, weeks or months carrying the emotional weight of something that may only take a few minutes to actually do.

Often, the constraints we experience aren't entirely external. They're created by the stories we tell ourselves about what might happen.

They're reinforced by perfectionism, people pleasing, fear of rejection, and by believing we need to be completely ready before taking a step forward, and yet life rarely offers certainty before courage is required.

What struck me most about that evening was that the audience had already given permission for people to be imperfect. The culture of the event welcomed it. Mistakes were fine. Improvisation was encouraged. Humour was celebrated. Participation mattered far more than perfection. The audience wasn't demanding flawlessness: the pressure was coming from somewhere else.

I see the same thing in business every day.
Clients who are already capable, experienced, knowledgeable and ready enough and still continue to carry enormous pressure because they are holding themselves to standards nobody else has asked of them.

Sometimes the biggest obstacle isn't the market, the competition, or a lack of skill. It's the invisible weight we add to ourselves.

Sometimes the next step isn't becoming more capable. It's putting down some of that weight and discovering that the thing underneath was never quite as heavy as we thought.