[Recorded at TED2024 live and in the studio]
(Cello music)
(Music ends)
(Applause and cheers)
I'm Joshua Roman, and that's how a cellist says hello.
(Laughter)
It's the prelude from the first suite for solo cello by Johann Sebastian Bach, and one of the pieces of music I've performed most in my life. It brings me so much joy every time I play it. And it's important to me tonight to start this very personal set with something I've loved as long as I can remember.
Three years ago, I was facing the possibility of never playing this beautiful music again. In January of '21, I caught COVID and, unfortunately, I never fully recovered. I could tell something was wrong when I continued struggling to read, even after my initial infection. Sometimes even basic sentences wouldn't make sense. A few weeks later, I was returning from the trip I'd been on when I got sick, and when I arrived home, the simple act of walking up the stairs to my bedroom completely laid me out. I only made it half way before falling to the floor on the landing, unable to continue or even to lift myself to a sitting position. I was there for half an hour, frustrated and crying.
Turns out I have long COVID, which causes a host of conditions and symptoms that can vary from patient to patient. To this day, I experience dysautonomia, a condition that affects the nervous system's ability to properly regulate the body's reaction to things like temperature changes, walking, or really any exertion. I also take medication daily to keep my heart rate from randomly skyrocketing to 200, and to steady the trembling that's there sometimes, even when I wake up in the morning. Of course, I have brain fog, a lovely catch-all term. In my case, it specifically refers to the difficulty I have processing information, which has really diminished my capacity for things like reading, any layered thinking, and forced me to stop driving completely due to the cognitive shutdown that occurs. This is all on top of crushing physical fatigue -- (Coughs) I have water. This is all on top of the crushing physical fatigue that I carry each day. Something that is very hard to get used to, especially for someone who was pretty proud of his under-six-minute mile before catching COVID.
Adjusting to this new reality hasn't been particularly graceful. After brute-forcing my way through two very important performances, I crashed hard. With nothing ahead on the calendar, I abandoned the daily practice routine that I'd been cultivating for over 30 years, which would often last many hours. I put my cello in its case, and I left it there. Doubts that had been lurking for years came to the surface. I'd been stuck in a gig mentality for much of my career, waiting for the phone to ring, afraid to say “no” to any opportunity, and completely unaware of the exhaustion that ran through my body and spirit.
I've always wanted to feel like what I do matters. But after decades of ambitious effort to play every note in tune, make every phrase clear and powerful, I was having trouble seeing that possibility through my fatigue. With the difficulty I had even lifting the bow, let alone putting in a decent practice session, I lost hope that it mattered. It was almost three months of dark soul searching before I finally literally dusted off the case and pulled out my cello again. A friend of mine had asked me to play for her summer solstice party, and I reluctantly agreed, though I didn't feel emotionally ready. I waited until the last minute, the day before the party, to see if my fingers still knew what to do.
When I began to play those first notes, the ones that I've played for you just now, I was overcome with emotion, feeling the sheer physicality of making sound. Even though I was out of shape, the power of the cello's vibrations moved me to tears.
I've known this sensation as a familiar friend since I was three years old, but I realized that somewhere along the way, I had stopped fully appreciating the connection. Long before COVID, I'd become so focused on the idea that my career was about giving to others that I had completely lost sight of my own need for nourishment and connection through music.
When I decided to write a piece for this project, I was nervous. I wanted to capture all of the meaning, all of the pain, all of the lessons I'd been learning. This piece was going to say everything. We all know that's not how it works. Of course, I gave myself writer's block. So I started improvising to get the creative juices flowing. And though it was fun, I wasn't finding that epic piece I was looking for. Eventually, I relaxed the process completely and gave myself permission to truly follow rather than dictate the sound. It didn't hurt that I was pretty close to the deadline. And very quickly, those fun improv sessions evolved into one of the most unabashedly joyful compositions I've ever written. I couldn't force myself to write the piece that I wanted, but when I let go and just played, I came away with the piece that I needed. I gave it the same name I've given my project.
Here it is, “Immunity”.
(Cello music)
(Music ends)
(Applause and cheers)
I love that, it's so wild and groovy. But -- As fun as that was, I've got to admit, it's still scary for me to be up here, talking about my vulnerabilities. I'm a performer, a perfectionist. Vulnerability can mean mistakes, and mistakes don't belong on stage. But I understand that that connection I felt when I held the cello again only had space because I was open, because I was vulnerable.
These days, I'm constantly adjusting to new limitations, new challenges, new realities. Long COVID is now considered a chronic condition, and I count myself lucky that with help from Mount Sinai's long COVID recovery program I'm learning how to better manage symptoms. But in a very real and measurable way, I am not who I was before I caught COVID, and it's unlikely that I'll ever be the same again.
So here we are. Rather than hide my struggle, I've decided to do the hard work of changing deeply ingrained habits and letting go of my attachment to an identity that prioritized perfection over connection. It took this debilitating condition for me to confront myself and embrace a perspective that allows me not only to give but to receive the gift of music.
I'm committed to this path. I'm committed to sharing the vulnerability that takes me out of my comfort zone and that makes music and art not of perfection, but of humanity.
(Applause and cheers)
