It’s not all about the numbers.

Not the number on the scale, the number on the measuring tape, the size number in the back of the garment. Not even the number of calories, the number of carbs, the number of glasses of water.

Probably because I’m out of tune, but let’s not split hairs, Chuck.

It’s easy for me to get lost in the numbers, at times. That’s especially true when I’m close to a goal, as I am, now, and I’m ultra focused on getting down to that next number. My brain will start behaving as if nothing else matters than that number.

Sometimes, you can get so wound up in the little goals that the big ones sneak up on you, and I met a big goal this past Saturday; a personal goal that I set some time ago. Last Saturday, after 32 years, I performed in my first concert.

And what a day it was! I could have easily become overwhelmed in the emotion of it, and nearly did toward the end of the performance. Much of my life is connected to music, and even though I haven’t considered myself a real musician in decades, my deep love of music is as important to me as the air that fills my lungs. I had not realized how much I missed it until a couple years ago, when a dear friend sent me a gift that made becoming a musician, again, possible.

I joined a community orchestra a few months ago, and had to overcome my initial fear of walking into unknown situations where I know no one and have no true safety net, but everything worked out. While I’ve never played with an orchestra before, joining in the joy of making music with others sparked that old passion within me, and it fills a spot that nothing else can.

Facing and embracing that part of myself, rusted and squeaky with disuse as it was, was an emotional task. Often frustrated but determined, I sat down with my instrument on a nearly daily basis and pushed a little harder and a little further every day. Instead of just playing for myself, I had a goal in sight; a daunting one, for me at least.

So when I sat down at my performance on Saturday, slightly nervous to see the people gathering in that church hall, I carried a lot of things with me, there. None of my fellow musicians knew what baggage I carried with me; the fear of overcoming 32 years of musical silence, the fear of doing something I love — badly, the fear that no one would witness the event, the fear that everyone would witness it.

Playing that day was the fulfillment of a promise I made to the woman who sent me the instrument who made it possible. It was also the promise and the bond made as a child, the first time my oldest brother sat down with me to teach me to play the french horn, and then decades later, happily sparking that common bond as I picked it up and learned all over again. I hope I made him proud, and I wish he had lived to have known. It was a promise I talked about wistfully, with a dear friend, for years before it happened — not imagining it ever would.

But most of all, I fulfilled a promise to myself.

This is not so much about music as it is the strengthening and validation of my own sense of self. I set out to do this, thinking it couldn’t be done, and I might have to tuck my tail between my legs and come on home, defeated. I’m certainly no virtuoso; just a middle-aged woman, making music again. I’ve stumbled and doubted myself along the way, but perfection isn’t necessarily the goal; feeding my soul, however, has been worth every misstep.

Inevitably, this journey is one of self-discovery, of finding strength, of living life. Of being able to stand tall and say this is me, and know it rings true in every way. Every time I find just a little more of that strong girl within me, I take one step closer to being strong enough to make the end goal worth the fight.

No, it’s not about the numbers. I’m not just the old me in a thinner version. It’s about evolving, breaking free, and learning to live. If I can do that, I can keep the ultimate promise to myself.