The Night I Almost Didn’t Press Play

How a Birthday Wish Came True

“DON’T LOOK AT ME,” I said, laughing nervously. Tiny Amsterdam living room. My 34th birthday, dining table turned DJ booth. Twelve friends around me in a circle, like something was about to happen.

My hands were shaking. I picked the song I knew best from my practice playlist, took a deep breath, and pressed play.

I almost didn’t get here. Fear nearly stole this memory.

A fear that never says “Hi, it’s me,” or blatantly confronts you. That’s how it wins. You don’t choke. You just… forget to show up.

At least that’s how I experience it.

Ten years ago, I took stand-up comedy classes. At the end of the course, we were supposed to perform a short monologue for our friends and family.

But I didn’t do it.

I didn’t freak out at the last minute. I just “lost interest.” Or was it my ego protecting me? I told myself, “This is boring,” not “I’m scared,” not “What if I suck?”

That’s how I fail, by not trying.

It’s clean. Elegant. The perfect alibi.

The things we care about most are often the ones we sabotage. The more it matters, the more reasons we invent to walk away.

We say we’re tired. Busy. Not in the mood.

But underneath the apathy, the excuses, there is... fear.

We’re not only afraid of failing. We fear fear itself.

And that extra layer of fear is the trap.

Fear loses its power when we call it by its name. So... it hides. It grows in the dark, like a leech.

Every time I did something I was afraid of, my life improved. Not immediately, but eventually. Moved to Europe. Changed jobs. Broke up relationships.

I thought I’d learned that lesson.

But lessons expire. Like vaccines, the protection fades with time.

That’s the cruel part. When we stumble again, we don’t just feel the pain. We feel shame, disappointment. “Seriously? Again?” Yes, again. As if lessons were permanent. But most wisdom is leased, not owned.

This time, I must have done something right because things changed.

It wasn’t that I got brave. But my homies wouldn’t let me off the hook.

When they arrived at the party and didn’t see me playing, they asked with a smile, “Are you going to play for us or what?” Not demanding. Just… excited. Like they already believed I’d do great.

So I said “maybe,” and quietly started setting up the speakers.

I cleared the table, moved the leftover butter chicken and plugged in the controller.

And then came that moment: DON’T LOOK AT ME.

I don’t even remember if the first mix was good or not. I just kept playing. Ten minutes became twenty. An hour flew by.

I relaxed. I grooved with my friends and talked about life. I wasn’t thinking about mixing, I was just doing it.

It's rare to realize, mid‑moment, that you're living a dream.

We grow up thinking dreams come with trophies. Millions of followers and standing ovations.

But sometimes, a dream is quiet. A private win. A moment no one notices but you.

It lasts only a moment. Then, another goal comes. A bigger milestone to achieve.

But that feeling, doing the thing despite the shaking, is worth everything.

And I almost missed this one.

If my friends hadn’t pushed me, I would not have played.

And when it felt the hardest, they were there with me, giving me nods of encouragement. They ran beside me like a dad steadying a kid’s bike.

“This sounds amazing,” they said. Maybe they were exaggerating. Who cares? I needed that and they knew it.

We talk about chasing dreams like it’s a solo race.

But sometimes, you need people close by while your hands shake.

The rest? That’s just pressing play.