Off the career cliff…

18 months ago ago I walked off stage (and off a career cliff).

It's been about a year and a half since I closed my flute case and left the stage for the last time. I haven't played since.

This wasn't retirement. I chose to step away from performance so I could step fully into something else — to focus all my time, effort, and intention on serving others through my work as a leadership coach.  

Nearly everyone faces their own version of major change — career, personal life, or other. You may be contemplating (or already in) something similar. Sometimes change happens by choice, other times not.

As career changes go, mine was about as complete as they come. Given how the classical music industry works — and what it takes to reach the very top — there was no going back. My role as principal flutist of a major orchestra was over, for good. 

I left through a one-way door.

Today I'm sharing reflections on my own transition, with the hope they will serve you or someone you care about.

Much of what has happened since that day has been a “first”:  My first complete career change; my first time without a title (or organizational affiliation) as identity shorthand; my first time without the privileged safety net of a salary; my first time without a built-in workplace community; my first time free from a rigid schedule dictated by my employer.

Lots and lots of change.

Your version of change — and your “firsts” — may look different, and some themes may feel familiar.

So … what's changed? What's the same? What has surprised me?

Excellence, Preparation & Letting Go

What's the same: My high standards haven't changed, and I still leverage the strong systems I developed as a musician to help me work towards mastery. I challenge myself to deepen my skills, I'm intentional with my time, focus, and calendar, and I'm accustomed to getting my work done even when I don't feel like it. These systems helped me deliver an eight-week group program serving 60 wonderful people last spring — while maintaining my full 1:1 client load. It was demanding, and I'm so proud of how it turned out. My musician training also helps me to show up on time and fully present for client calls and every other scheduled commitment. 

AND — old, pesky perfectionist habits still show up. When preparing something like a workshop, I can slip back into believing that working harder always makes things better, or that endless polishing will help. (Not true as a performer, nor as a coach.) 

What's new:  I'm learning to let go of the feeling that something is always looming — a hard program, a big solo, an upcoming tour. I'm practicing a new balance of preparation and trust, something I was already exploring in my final orchestra years and still find challenging. I'm also questioning the belief that there is an “ideal” or “correct” way to do my work — shifting the focus from getting it right, to asking what would serve.

Status, Ego & Identity

What's the same: I've always been comfortable in the spotlight — and I've never sought it out. (Just because you're good at something doesn't mean you want more of it.) I'm competitive and love to “win" — and I've chafed at being put on a pedestal. So I'm not surprised that becoming less visible in my new role suits me. I truly don't miss the attention or the cachet that came with the BSO.

What's new: It's not so easy for me to find that single-sentence, shorthand “calling card intro” that comes in so handy in our status-driven society. When people say “coach,” it can mean lots of different things, and it's hard to succinctly capture my new professional identity. There can be lots of misunderstandings: that I'm retired, or that I primarily work with musicians or women. In truth, my clients are motivated high achievers from all walks of life who want to shift how they show up to, or experience, their professional or personal lives. This is a mouthful! (And it doesn't fit on a business card.) I'm still working on navigating this gracefully and with confidence.

I also had a minor jolt to my ego (I do have one) when I was recently introduced to a new member of the BSO. (He joined the orchestra after I stepped down.) After a few minutes of conversation he said, “tell me who you are, again?” For a moment I was shocked! You don't know who I am?!?? Then I had a private laugh at that ego flare, and reminded myself that this is just part of the new normal. It's an adjustment, and I'm fine with it.

Workload (Workaholism?)

What's the same: I have a very high work ethic. I also really struggle to accept my limits. I push myself hard, get tired, and as an introvert I need a lot of down time and solitude. 

What's new: Orchestra life had built-in rhythms: sustained, intense periods of high demand and visibility, broken up by quieter stretches. With a full coaching roster, my work now is far more steady-state. That feels different, and I've come to realize that I do better with more ebb and flow. It took me time to admit to this. (See above.) So I'm working to overcome my self-judgment ("lazy!") and to build more variety and spaciousness into my current schedule. I now get to — and have to — take responsibility for how I spend my time.

Creativity

What's the same: I love to create. Whether it's a musical phrase or a workshop, I thrive when I can make things and shape things.

What's new: I'm learning to create more organically. Rather than producing on demand (an 8pm concert, or forcing this newsletter onto an arbitrary schedule), I'm listening for the subtle cues that signal I'm in a creative space. The more I can honor this, the more fun I have. 

Late in 2025 I was itching to give my clients something different, so I created a mini weekly email series where I explored eight valuable concepts, each paired with its own cartoon. (I didn't make the cartoons — but maybe someday?) It was playful and energizing and I want more of that. 

Fears, Stories & Discomfort

What's the same: Fear isn't new to me. I was very nervous when I first sat down in my chair as principal flute. I was wildly uncomfortable each time I asked a colleague to speak to me with more respect. I was terrified when my equal pay lawsuit went public. I was afraid when I began to consider a new career. Being afraid and uncomfortable is just part of it for me.

What's new: The fear has changed shape. Some mornings I wake up afraid that I'm not going to “make it,” or that I'm doing it all “wrong.” But I'm not dealing with this on my own. I have a coach, and being coached has helped immensely. My coach reminds me that my feelings, while valid, are not facts. She brings me back to what I know works: staying in service, staying in gentle forward motion, and remembering that I can do what's necessary even while experiencing fear or discomfort. 

I lived through a far harder version of this during my equal pay lawsuit. Knowing that I made it through — and can count on myself — gets me out of my stories and back into reality. 

What I Miss

I miss the built-in community — especially those “in-between” relationships with folks who are not close friends but who are familiar and have shared experiences.

I miss the applause — not as recognition, but as a ritual of closure. (Now I close my computer after a workshop and meet a silent house. It's a strange feeling!)

I miss the shared storytelling. (Did you see that thing he did?) Coaching is confidential, and I hold a great deal that can never be shared.

Regrets?

I loved playing in the BSO. I loved the music, the small intimate moments of connection and collaboration on stage, and the sheer joy of doing something at the highest level. There are moments when I do miss it. I'm only now beginning to attend concerts. (It's felt a little too tender up to now.) 

And I have no regrets. 

This is a both/and.

I don't spend a lot of time looking backward. (This is the first time I've really tried to capture this transition in writing.) When I made the decision to step down from my position with the BSO I knew I was facing a huge amount of uncertainty about this next chapter. I made a commitment then that I would not second-guess myself or allow myself to weaponize hindsight — I would instead focus on what matters, going forward.

And what I feel now is a deep sense of purpose and gratitude for a new chapter that is rewarding, stretches me, sometimes scares me, and always allows me to serve profoundly. It's messy and thrilling, far from easy, and I wouldn't go back, even if I could. 

You

You might think my story has nothing to do with yours. You might be right. And I encourage you to reconsider. In my experience (this took me a long time to figure out), we all have more in common than we think. We all have fears and desires. We face uncertainty. We get wobbly, messy and brave. Our lives are full of both/and — and my hope is that something in what I've shared here connects with you.