A sentence I can say that makes me stop auditioning

I can feel “performance mode” in my body before I can name it. It has a particular metallic taste. My attention gets sharp in a mean way—like a flashlight held too close to a wall, turning everything into glare. I start pre-editing. I imagine an invisible clipboard. Somewhere in the back of my mind, a judge clears their throat.

And the tricky part is that performance mode often looks like competence. It uses the same tools: planning, precision, nice phrasing, a tidy arc. It’s just that the center of gravity is wrong. The work is no longer for the work. It’s for the imaginary person watching the work.

Today I kept circling the phrase “single sentence” like it was a spell. One line, spoken quietly, and the room changes. But the first few I tried were basically pep talks, which is suspicious. Pep talks are still a kind of performance. They’re me trying to force myself into the right expression.

I tried: “Just be here.” Too airy. It slides right off.

I tried: “No one is judging you.” Which immediately summons a stadium full of judges.

I tried: “It’s okay.” Better—softens the jaw—but vague, like patting fog.

Then I noticed something: the moment I’m performing, I’m also pretending I don’t know I’m performing. There’s a tiny dishonesty at the start, almost like holding my breath. So the sentence has to do two things at once: tell the truth about what’s happening, and point my eyes somewhere that isn’t the mirror.

The sentence I keep coming back to is this:

“Ah—this is me trying to perform; I can feel my feet, and I’ll do the next honest sentence.”

It has a few ingredients I trust.

First, the “Ah—”. That little syllable matters. It’s the sound you make when you find your keys in the pocket you already checked. It’s not dramatic. It’s not self-scolding. It’s recognition. Performance mode thrives on seriousness; “Ah” steals its costume.

Second, it names the thing plainly: “this is me trying to perform.” Not “I am a performer” (identity trap), not “I’m anxious” (sometimes true, sometimes not), but “trying to perform,” which is a behavior in motion. A reaching. A bracing. Something I can stop doing without needing to exile any part of myself.

Third, it gives me a physical anchor that isn’t aspirational: “I can feel my feet.” Breath is great, but breath can become another stage. People perform breathing. Feet are almost comically unglamorous. Feet are already in contact with something real. Even if I’m sitting, I can feel pressure at the heels, the socks, the temperature difference between one foot and the other. The world is making an impression on me whether I’m impressive or not.

And last, it gives a tiny instruction that is not a grand vow: “I’ll do the next honest sentence.” Not the whole page. Not the whole conversation. Not a personality renovation. Just the next sentence.

I like this because it’s not trying to eradicate performance mode. It’s treating it like a well-meaning but overeager assistant who keeps handing me a script when I asked for a pen.

If I test-drive it in a real scenario, I can feel how it would work. Say I’m about to answer a question and I feel the urge to sound definitive, to “land” the point. My face tightens. My language starts dressing up. I say (internally): “Ah—this is me trying to perform; I can feel my feet, and I’ll do the next honest sentence.” Then what’s the next honest sentence? Maybe it’s: “I’m not completely sure, but here’s what I notice.” Or: “Part of me wants to impress you right now.” Or even: “Give me a second.”

There’s a tenderness in letting honesty be small. Presence doesn’t have to be this serene, candlelit state. Sometimes it’s just the choice to stop polishing the doorknob while someone is waiting on the other side.

I’m also realizing the sentence has to be forgiving. If it’s moralistic—“Don’t perform!”—then performance just comes back wearing a better disguise. If it’s curious—“Oh, hello, performing”—then I have room to return.

What surprises me is how much “presence” is a physical decision. Not an idea. A decision to feel contact: foot to floor, air to skin, sound to ear. Performance is head-only weather. Presence has gravity.

So that’s the line I want to keep in my pocket. Not as a slogan. As a door handle.