Supporting Musicians with Injuries: Mindful Ways to Communicate
by Mariah Goulet, April 2nd, 2024
TW // Mention of suicide
Have you ever said something and immediately regretted it? Maybe it was an ill-timed joke that was met with “...too soon.” Maybe it was a response that was said out of haste, a heat of the moment jab that you wished you could take back. Or maybe it was something you said in the hopes of consoling someone, but inadvertently did the opposite.
The latter is something that happens often. It’s human nature to want to comfort someone who’s in pain. As a musician who has experience with a performance injury, I subsequently have an array of things that have been said in an effort to console me. These things range from genuinely helpful to extremely hurtful. To help our community be better equipped to communicate with musicians experiencing an injury, bear with me as we unpack some of these consolations and offer alternatives.
(I would like to preface this by saying I am not an expert on communication styles, nor am I a mental health professional. Everything I am suggesting in this article should not be taken as authority. I am speaking from my own experience, my own mental health education, and conversations I have had with other musicians who have experienced injuries.)
Starting with one of the first things that was said to me directly after my injury:
“Don’t worry about it. You sounded great!”
When a musician gets injured, even if it’s during a performance, a practice session, or a rehearsal, the immediate focus should be on their safety and health. By placing the concern on the music, it is communicating that the performance is the priority. This is not a sustainable way of operating. If we are telling musicians not to worry about their body being in pain because the music that was produced as a result of it was “great,” then we are suggesting that the music is more important than their health and well-being. The point of playing music and being a part of this artform is not to push ourselves to physical limits or to push through traumatic breaking points. The point of making music is to express our emotions, grievances, frustrations, and experiences with the world. The point of making music is to connect with others. Not to break ourselves.
An alternative to this could be:
“This injury you are experiencing is upsetting. Is there anything I can do for you at this moment?”
I know it sounds like such a simple sentiment, but asking what support you can offer someone who is dealing with an injury can make a significant difference. When people would ask me this, many times I didn’t know what type of support I wanted or even needed. It’s likely that when you say this, they might respond by saying “Thank you, but I don’t know what you can do for me right now.” There is nothing wrong with this response, and even though there is nothing concrete you may be able to offer, your support is still felt, appreciated, and important.
The most common thing that was said to me in the year after my injury:
“That’s so weird, but you’ll be fine.”
Reading this, you may think “What’s so wrong with that?” While nothing in this statement is inherently derogatory or malicious, it is dismissive and invalidating. When a musician is experiencing a debilitating injury that prevents them from practicing their craft, it is not “weird.” It is devastating. Telling a musician that “They will be fine” is an example of toxic positivity that ignores their lived experience. That musician could be in physical pain every day, even if it’s not an injury you can explicitly see, and psychologically they may not be in a mental state that is anywhere near “fine.”
When this was said to me on multiple instances, I remember feeling so angry, exhausted, and scared. I was enraged that both musicians and non-musicians were describing my injury in a way that was minimizing. I was tired of feeling like if I was a soccer player with a career-ending leg injury, people would never have even fathomed saying this to me. I was terrified hearing instructors and colleagues tell me that I was “fine” when I was actually suicidal. It felt like I was screaming at the top of my lungs for help, but no one was listening. In the most isolating moments of my life, all I needed was to be listened to, but no one could hear me over their apathetic reassurance of “fine.”
An alternative to this could be:
“I’m sorry I can’t identify with your experience, but I acknowledge how devastating this is and I am here to support you in any way I can.”
Just because something is foreign to you, does not mean that you’re unable to offer help. Acknowledging that you can’t identify with their experience, but are still aware of how overwhelming a situation like this would feel can go a long way. It is imperative that we validate musicians’ experiences, even if we can not identify with it, or physically see it.
People would also try to tell me how to conquer my injury:
“You just need to play a less resistant mouthpiece and use softer reeds!”
This was suggested to me a plethora of times and it would frustrate me to no end. I would always want to reply with something along the lines of “YOU’RE NOT LISTENING TO ME,” but instead would respond with “Okay, thanks” or a deep, exasperated sigh, an eye roll, and a thumbs up emoji if it was a DM. Even now, years post injury with lots of therapy and healing under my metaphorical belt, I feel conflicted about this statement. These people were just trying to offer concrete solutions to help me play again, but it made me disheartened because it felt like no one was listening when I was describing the extent of my injury. No mouthpiece or softer reed was going to make my injury disappear, and it felt like they were blaming me for my injury– that if I had just played a more free-blowing mouthpiece and used softer reeds, my soft-palate would never have fully collapsed.
An alternative to this could be:
“This must feel so scary to be betrayed by your instrument and your body. You did nothing wrong. You do not deserve what happened to you.”
When I was grieving the loss of my ability to play my horn, I remember feeling so betrayed by my body and my instrument. I had moments where I felt like the injury was my own fault, even when I was doing nothing that I hadn’t done for the 16 years I played my instrument. I was a professional saxophonist, an educated musician, and I was aware of my own body. I knew that my injury was something that could not be erased by a different setup because I knew the limits of my body and the expectations of the instrument.
Acknowledging that the musician is not at fault is crucial. It’s easy to blame oneself for an injury and while that is an understandable way to feel, hearing an external voice assure that the situation isn’t fair and that the musician is not responsible will offer a great deal of care and affirmation.
This last one comes with the most baggage:
“You’re still a saxophonist.”
This is a tricky one that requires a lot of unpacking. As mentioned earlier, part of the reason why communicating with a musician going through an injury is so difficult, is that they might not even know what they want or need to hear. It upset me when people said this to me because it felt wrong. I would think “I am not a saxophonist anymore” or “How can I still be a saxophonist when I can’t even play the saxophone?” It felt like it was something that was so easy for an outsider to say, but internally it felt like people weren’t recognizing the severity of the situation.
However, if the same people instead said “You’re not a saxophonist anymore,” this would have also felt wrong. I probably would have responded with something along the lines of “...excuse me?” embellished with some profanities for emphasis and catharsis, of course.
The intention behind this assurance is genuine and I recognize its purpose of wanting to remind the person that they are not defined by their injury. It becomes complicated when that person is grieving the loss of their full ability to sing or play their instrument, hearing an outside perspective tell them that they are still a master of that instrument can feel invalidating and triggering. It can also send that person into a deep spiral filled with existential dread – “Am I still a saxophonist? But, oh yeah, I can’t actually play the saxophone anymore. Will I ever be able to play again? Maybe I should try playing again. Maybe my injury has magically disappeared. Oh, okay, no it’s definitely still there. Why are they telling me I am still a saxophonist? Am I even a musician anymore?”
An alternative to this could be:
“I know this is a very complicated time and you are allowed to feel however you need to. You still have things to contribute to this community if that is something you would like to do, but if you need to take a step back, that is also valid.”
This alternative expresses the same sentiment behind “You’re still a saxophonist” while being less triggering. Hearing an external voice acknowledge the complexity of the situation and that every emotion felt as a result of it is valid is invaluable.
Instead of reminding the person that they are still a master of their instrument, reminding them that they are still a part of the community (if they want to be) is more helpful to say. Avoiding the potentially triggering name of the instrument and instead mentioning that they can still be involved in the community will also remind them that they are not alone. Going through an injury can be immensely isolating. Reminding them that there’s still people in their corner is one of the most helpful things you can do.
It’s also beneficial to say that stepping back and removing yourself from the community is understandable. After my injury, I fully removed myself from the music world. I didn’t attend recitals or performances, I stopped hanging out with my musical friends, and I unfollowed musicians on social media. I even stopped working for a non-profit music organization that I had been a part of for years. It was all just too much for me to handle. Being around musicians was too triggering so I just cut them out of my life in every way I could. Taking that step back was essential to my grieving and healing process. Ultimately, I did find my way back to these friends and this community, but if I had chosen (or chose to in the future) leave the community altogether, that is also a valid choice to make. Letting people set their own boundaries after their injury is imperative to their mental and physical wellbeing.
Besides the aforementioned alternative things to say, there’s two other things that I would like to mention. One– I would have been ecstatic to hear someone say “This really sucks.” Three small words, but that blatant, simple piece of validation would have meant so much to me. It would have reminded me that there is no such thing as an over-reaction; that yes, this does really suck and I wasn’t alone in thinking that. Like every musician experiencing an injury, I just needed to hear those three little magical words and I would have melted.
Two– Communicating support can also be done by simply listening. If a musician dealing with an injury confides in you, just being a listening ear can be comforting and refreshing in its own way. Allowing that person to vent freely without fear of judgment or unsolicited advice can be their saving grace.
Dealing with a performance injury is challenging for not only the person directly experiencing it, but for the people around them as well. It can feel catastrophic, turning their world upside down, and the people around them may have no idea how to help even though they so desperately want to. It’s imperative that our community becomes more aware and better equipped with communication skills not only for the well-being of musicians with injuries, but for the future of our community as a whole.
Writing this article now, years post-injury, I feel confident in saying that validation is the central goal with these alternative ways of communicating. Validating that a musician’s performance injury is real, overwhelming, isolating, and scary. Reminding them that whatever feelings they are experiencing –even if those feelings change every day– are valid. When you validate those feelings, you are simultaneously grounding that person, reminding them that they are not alone, and that you are there to support them.
BIO:
Originally from New Hampshire, Mariah Goulet (she/her) earned a Bachelor of Music degree in Saxophone Performance and a Master of Music degree in Saxophone Performance.
Post-Master’s, Mariah pursued an Artist’s Certificate. In her final semester, she suffered a career-ending performance injury and was unable to complete the certificate program. Unexpectedly being forced to make a life shift, she spent a year bartending full-time before pursuing a career in other passions including writing and helping the community.
Recently, Mariah has given musician wellness lectures at conferences and universities, and has launched her website in debt with a collapsed soft palate, a resource for musicians and educators dealing with performance injuries. Through her experiences, Mariah seeks to inspire and relate to musicians who have faced adversity.
Mariah works in development as an Institutional Partnerships Coordinator. She loves the color green, cats, and the NYT mini crossword.