Off Key, Still Me

Today, I played in the choir.

The hall was full. The song sheets ready. Fingers slightly cold, but heart warm. We started. One song, then the next: flowing like a river that had rehearsed its path.

Until that one moment. I messed up the chords. Not dramatically: just… a little stumble. Barely a few times.

But inside, I heard it. That voice: soft, but clear.

“You should’ve gotten that right.” “You knew that part. Why did you slip?” “Now it’s not perfect anymore.”

And then: another voice. Quieter, but kinder. One I’ve been learning to listen to. “But didn’t the rest of the songs go well?” “Didn’t your heart show up fully?” “What if this is what growth looks like not flawless, but full?”

I didn't spiral. But I also didn’t celebrate. I packed up slowly. Still caught between almost there and not quite enough.

And then just as I was about to leave, a little girl came up to me. She tugged at my sleeve and said, “You played really well.” That’s it.

No critique. No analysis. Just presence. Just grace.

And something inside me melted. I smiled and said thank you, but inside, I whispered to myself: “Maybe being a work in progress is not something I need to hide.” “Maybe this, this moment is where becoming happens.” “Not in the flawless performances  but in the moments after the stumble, when I choose softness over shame.”

And maybe this is true for you too?

Have you also felt like you couldn’t celebrate because you didn’t do it perfectly?

Do you hold your applause for yourself until the stars align just right?

Do you forget that showing up as you are is already a quiet kind of success?

Have you paused your joy until you could prove you deserved it?

Because what if you're already worthy: not when you finish the race, but every time you lace up your shoes and show up?

The truth is: we’re all learning. Adjusting. Becoming.

A little off-key, a little unsure, but still singing.

And that’s the beauty of it.

We are all a work in progress.

Sometimes it takes a child’s words to remind us.

Sometimes it takes a small mistake to soften us.

Sometimes it takes music, or a moment, to open our eyes.

And now, I walk out: not with the mistake,

but with the memory of that little voice saying, “You did well.”

Because maybe that’s exactly what I needed to tell myself too.

And maybe it’s what you need to hear today.

You're a work in progress.

And that’s not something to fix:

It’s something to honour. Like a circle finding its way back home.