Three days earlier, I stood with her parents and two mutual friends, tucked into the loud corner of a nightclub. The evening represented the culmination of the girls rock camp she'd participated in. Nine groups, 9 numbers. As we came to the last, I set my phone to record video, and tried to hold steady as I watched.
It was hard to not get into the music. Her music. The song was one she'd written, and she poured every ounce of her own passion into it as she sang. When it ended, I kept still, even as the crowd applauded, cheered, and burst into high-fives. Keep the camera rolling, I thought. I suppose it shouldn't have been a surprise that what I saw when I looked to her parents was pride. She'd brought the house down.
We'd planned to all grab a bite shortly thereafter, a wise plan given she hadn't eaten since half a day earlier. So, after offering my kudos, I stood quietly and watched as so many other continued to. I understood the anxiety she'd brought with her. In addition to her worries about her performance, there was the overhead of other issues with which I was intimately acquainted. But it was plain as I continued watching that the fear was unfounded. Today, she was a star.