Between Voice and Silence, Rod.

Rod was backstage, minutes away from taking the stage. The noise of the audience seeped through the walls. He gripped the microphone tightly, so tightly his hands were shaking slightly, and sweat was already running down his body. He breathed deeply, but his air seemed to choke, it wasn't coming in properly. He looked at the floor, searching for something to focus on. There was a strange stain there—coffee, no way, it was probably something more disgusting. Whatever, the point was, he couldn't think straight. His head was racing, and time was slipping away. There were only a few minutes left, and he was still there, rooted to the spot, as if his feet had glued themselves to the floor. The truth is, he has stage fright. But it hadn't always been like this. Well, at least he didn't remember it being so heavy. A few years ago, when he started singing, things were different. His first gig was at a small bar, with about 20 people, almost all friends or guys who were there for a beer. He was nervous, obviously, but it was normal nerves, the kind you get before doing something new. That night, when he got on stage, something strange happened.

The music came out on its own, his voice sounded better than he expected, and the crowd actually applauded, not just for show. It was as if everything clicked for a second. After that, everything accelerated. More shows, more people, a record deal. Rod went from being a nobody to someone who was playing on the radio. But with that came something he hadn't had on his radar: this anxiety that had him screwed. It wasn't just a matter of "oh, my legs shake before I sing." It was heavier, something that ate at him inside and made him doubt everything. Whether he sang well, whether people really loved him, whether it was worth continuing. Every time he had to get on stage, it was as if his head went into repeat mode with nothing but dark thoughts. "What if I screw up? What if they get bored? What if I'm a fraud?" Those questions haunted him, even when things were going well and he should be relaxing and enjoying himself.

That day, the concert was an extra burden. It wasn't the biggest he'd ever done, but it was in his hometown, where he was born and raised. His family was there, school friends, people who'd known him since he was a kid. It should have felt like home, but it didn't. It was worse. He felt like he had something to prove, that he couldn't let them down. That they had to see him and think, "Look at Rod, he did it." But instead, he was backstage, his hands sweaty and his mind blank, as if everything had been erased. He closed his eyes and tried to breathe again, more slowly. He'd been going to therapy for this for a while. The psychologist told him the anxiety wasn't going to just go away, that it was something he had to learn to deal with. She recommended deep breathing, meditation, that sort of thing. Rod tried, but it wasn't that easy. Sometimes, he'd start meditating and end up thinking about whether he'd left the stove on or about some stupid video he'd watched on TikTok. It didn't come naturally to him, what do I know?

He remembered a therapy session a few weeks ago. He was sitting in the office, staring at the floor, and the psychologist asked him how he felt before singing. Rod was silent for a while, unsure how to explain it. "It's like I'm suffocating on stage," he said at the end, somewhat haltingly. "Like everything was crushing me and I couldn't get out." She jotted something down in her notebook and told him it was normal to feel that way, but that he had to accept it instead of fighting it. Rod didn't quite grasp what she meant. Accept that he felt like shit? And then what? He didn't ask, just nodded and let the conversation continue.

He came back to the present because the clock was ticking. His manager, Carlos, burst into the dressing room. Carlos was a straightforward guy, he didn't complicate things. "Rod, are you ready or what? There are five minutes left," he said, staring at him. He was obviously worried, but also fed up. Rod knew him well; Carlos wanted him to do well, but he didn't understand why he was acting like this. "Yes, I'm coming," he replied, trying to sound firm, even though he didn't believe it himself. Carlos looked at him for a second longer, as if hesitant, but in the end, he left without saying anything.

He honestly felt like he was carrying a backpack of rocks. He thought about how many times he'd been in this same place, about to go on stage, and how each time it got a little harder. He remembered a show a few months ago that almost killed him. He was singing the first song and his voice cracked. He had to stop, stay quiet for a while. People thought it was artistic, but he was about to collapse. After that, he decided he had to do something, that he couldn't continue like this. That's why he started therapy and all that. He also tried writing down what he felt, putting it into songs. At first, nothing. He'd sit down with his guitar and nothing came out. Everything sounded like it was written by a robot, fake. Until one night, out of nowhere, he woke up at three in the morning with something on his mind. He grabbed a notebook and wrote down whatever came out, unfiltered. It wasn't a masterpiece, but it was real. He put it away, thinking that one day he'd sing it, though he didn't know when.

And just today, he wanted to play that song. He wasn't sure it was a good idea, but he felt he had to get it out. It was like a way of staring the fear that had him in the face. He didn't know what was going to happen, whether people would like it or not, but he didn't care as much anymore. Or so he told himself, so he wouldn't go crazy. He heard the MC call his name over the speakers. The audience applauded. He walked onto the stage and said, "Thanks for coming." The audience applauded again, and Rod felt better, though he didn't relax completely. He started with a familiar song, one of those that always hit live. He played it almost without thinking, letting his hands do their thing while his mind wandered. He finished the song, and the audience applauded. He smiled, although he was still tense. He continued with the set, playing a couple more. Everything was going well, but he knew the heavy stuff was coming next, with that new song he'd written.

When the time came, he remained silent for a second, looking at the crowd. "This is one you haven't heard," he said, a little nervously. "It's personal, I don't know, I hope you like it." He grabbed his guitar and started with a simple but groovy riff. Then he sang.

The lyrics were about feeling trapped, about the pressure, about the fear of screwing up. It wasn't a happy song, but it was real. As he sang it, his voice trembled a couple of times, but he didn't stop. He kept going, letting it all out. And in the midst of that, something happened. He felt like the crowd was with him, really. Some closed their eyes, others nodded. It was as if they understood, as if what he was saying rubbed off on them. For the first time, Rod felt like he was there, on stage, not just pretending. He finished the song and the applause was loud, louder than with the others. He smiled, this time for real. He hadn't been perfect, but it didn't matter. He'd been honest, and that was worth more. After the show, he threw himself into his dressing room, exhausted but calm. Carlos walked in, his face unsmiling. "Rod, what's up, that new song... awesome." Rod shrugged. "Thanks, I guess." He didn't know what else to say. He was dead, but it wasn't the usual tiredness. It was something else, lighter.

Once home, he sat on the couch, staring out the window. Everything was quiet outside. He thought about the journey he'd made, about what had happened that day. He knew the anxiety hadn't gone away, that it would return, surely at the next gig or at any moment. But he also knew that now he had a way to face it, that he wasn't so lost. And that being himself, even with his mistakes, wasn't so bad. He grabbed his notebook and began to write a few lines, random ideas for another song. He didn't know if it would work or not, but it wasn't bothering him so much anymore. The important thing was to keep going, slowly, without rushing.

Credits: The images used are free to use and royalty free. They were taken from pixabay.