When the Improviser’s Instrument Is Out of Tune

As improvisers, our bodies and brains are our instruments. And when that instrument is out of tune, performing and teaching land differently. For our audiences, our scene partners, our students, and ourselves.

As a performer, I want to be real, authentic, vulnerable, and present. But how can you be any of those things when you’re masking so much that you’re not even being real with yourself?

Full disclosure. Seven weeks ago, I had a pretty intense mental health crisis. Severe anxiety and depression. I had spent almost two weeks in bed. Not showering, no motivation, completely overwhelmed by even the smallest things. I was only showing up for the obligations I financially couldn’t afford to miss.

I needed help. But here’s the thing. I don’t ask for help. I figure things out. I problem-solve. I push through. I make it work. Until I couldn’tt.

For the past 24 months, I’ve been dealing with chronic health issues and several injuries. And this spring, I was diagnosed as neurodivergent. That diagnosis explained a lot, but it also left me questioning a lot. For most of my life, I thought I knew who I was, how I worked, and why I did the things I did. Suddenly, I was looking at everything through a different lens. I started questioning how much of my personality was actually me and how much was years of masking, adapting, and trying to meet everyone else’s expectations.

I think a huge part of my depression came from simply not knowing who I was anymore. Imagine spending your entire life playing one instrument and suddenly someone hands you a completely different one. Or worse, you sit down with the instrument you’ve played for decades and realize you can’t read the music anymore. That’s what it felt like. And somewhere in all that confusion, I lost the joy and passion I had always felt for performing. Something that had been such a huge part of who I was no longer felt like me.

I believe characters are mostly grounded in the actor’s own truth and reality. We bring pieces of ourselves into everything we create. Our experiences, our perspectives, our emotions, our humanity. But what happens when you don’t know who you are anymore? What truth are you bringing to the stage when you can’t even find your own?

I stopped volunteering for performance opportunities. I canceled classes that felt too difficult to wade through in that headspace. I pulled back from things that normally fill my cup because suddenly they were emptying it. And that was heartbreaking.

Now, before anyone worries, I did get help. I have a therapist, a social worker, a concierge nurse, my primary care team, and two specialists. It apparently takes a village to keep this improviser on her feet.

There have been new prescriptions, new strategies, and new ways of breaking overwhelming tasks into manageable moments. I even downloaded a silly little app to hold myself accountable for daily activities and help me find ways to increase serotonin, dopamine, and endorphins. I’m learning to recognize how much social interaction costs me physically and mentally. Sometimes that means fewer social situations. Sometimes it means leaving early. Sometimes it means saying no to something I genuinely want to do.

And I hate that part. Because I love people. I love performing. I love teaching. I love creating things with other humans. But loving something doesn’t mean your body and brain can always handle it.

Which brings me to last Sunday.

Several performers were absent from one of the teams I coach, so I needed to step in and perform. Something I’ve done hundreds, probably thousands, of times. No big deal, right?

Except it was.

I spent the hour before the show trying to mentally prepare myself. Trying to find the energy, the confidence, the strength to walk onstage and just be me. But the closer we got to showtime, the more overwhelming everything became. Anxiety flooded in. Hives started appearing. My blood pressure skyrocketed.

WTF? This is what I LOVE. This is where I’ve always felt at home. Why couldn’t I just walk onstage and trust myself?

And then it hit me. Because I don’t know who Karla is right now.

I did perform. With some assistance from medication for my blood pressure, anxiety, and an antihistamine. And honestly, I remember very little of the show. What I do remember is spending most of those 30 minutes hiding behind part of the stage and performing through a window. Because that little window felt safe. It gave me some distance, some security, some sense of control. And that’s where I could manage to play.

When those 30 minutes were over, I crashed. Hard. Mentally and physically, I was so exhausted I could barely hold my head up. Thirty minutes of something that used to energize me had completely drained me.

And I keep thinking about that. About how much energy it took just to appear like I was doing something that came naturally. About how much masking happens even when we’re supposedly being our most authentic selves. About how strange it is to lose your sense of safety in a place that has always felt like home.

So why am I sharing all this? Not for sympathy. Okay, maybe a tiny bit for understanding. But mostly for awareness.

Because we spend so much time in improv talking about supporting our scene partners, listening, being present, making each other look good, and trusting the ensemble. But we don’t always talk about what happens when someone’s instrument is out of tune.

You don’t know what your scene partner is carrying onto that stage. You don’t know what it took for them to get there. What they’re masking. What they’re managing. What their body or brain is doing while they’re trying to listen, respond, create, and connect.

And being out of tune doesn’t mean someone is less talented, less committed, or less passionate. It means playing is harder. Sometimes a lot harder. Sometimes it isn’t even pleasurable anymore.

And sometimes, the instrument shouldn’t be played in that state.

That’s a difficult thing for me to admit because so much of my identity has been wrapped up in being a performer, a teacher, a director, a creator. If I’m not doing those things, who am I?

I don’t have that answer right now. I’m still figuring out what my brain needs, what my body can handle, and what authenticity looks like when I’m not entirely sure who I’m being authentic to.

And maybe part of this process is accepting that the instrument has changed. Maybe I can’t play it the same way I used to. Maybe I need to learn a new way to make music. And maybe, for a little while, I need to stop playing long enough to listen.

To my fellow performers and teachers, check in with your people. Really check in. Give each other grace. Understand that showing up doesn’t always mean someone is okay. And if you’re the one struggling, I hope you can give yourself some of that same grace.

I’m working on it.

I still love this art form. I still believe in the power of connection, vulnerability, and finding truth together onstage. I just need to find my own truth again.

And hopefully, somewhere along the way, I’ll find the joy in playing again too.