Progress, Not Perfection
One of the consistent themes running through my 100 Days of ‘Ukulele project was learning how to loosen my grip on perfection — especially when the music wasn’t staying in the dark.
I’m classically trained — my primary instrument was tuba — and I studied music at Colorado State University. Later, I taught band and orchestra, where precision mattered: right notes, right rhythms, right entrances. In that world, mistakes are something you fix before anyone hears them. You practice until the errors disappear.
That mindset follows you, even when you leave the practice room.
Recording 100 songs — and sharing them publicly — challenged that way of thinking almost immediately. Practicing alone is one thing. Letting people hear you practice is another. There’s a vulnerability in allowing unfinished edges to exist where others can see them.
Some days were clean and confident. Others weren’t. A few songs were one-takes. Some had small mistakes I noticed immediately. A couple were even misnumbered — not once, but twice. Earlier versions of me would have stopped, re-recorded, or quietly kept those moments private.
This time, I let them stay.
As both a musician and an educator, I know this truth well: practice is not about playing perfectly — it’s about playing to improve. And improvement rarely sounds perfect in the moment. It sounds exploratory. It sounds human. Sometimes it sounds a little messy.
What changed during this project was realizing that sharing imperfect music isn’t careless — it’s courageous. When we let others hear us mid-process, we invite connection instead of judgment. We make space for community, not comparison.
Music has always been something I love doing with people. Open mics, jam sessions, performances — they thrive on presence, not polish. Leaving a mistake in a recording didn’t mean I didn’t hear it. It meant I chose honesty over control.
And surprisingly, that choice brought the joy back.
When I stopped trying to prove something with each song, the music softened. It breathed. The pressure lifted, and what remained was the reason I started playing in the first place — connection.
This project reminded me that perfection can be useful, but it’s not where the music lives. The music lives in showing up, being seen, and trusting that progress — imperfect and shared — is enough.
