Right to Sing: Stories, Research & Reflection

  For most of my professional life, I’ve been in and around singing—on stage, in the studio, in rehearsal rooms, and now, in the messy and meaningful work of research. Over the last few years, one theme has risen again and again in my teaching, my studies, and my own story: shame . Quiet shame. Loud shame. Tiny micro-shames that accumulate over time. The shame of not sounding good enough. Of losing your voice. Of caring too much. Of being replaced. This blog is part of my ongoing work—both personal and academic—into understanding shame and objectification in the lives of singers. As a PhD researcher, I’m diving deep into the emotional worlds of professional vocalists. But this space isn’t just about research—it’s a conversation. A place to reflect, wonder, challenge, and reimagine what it means to teach and be taught in this field. What to Expect You’ll find a mix of things here: 💭 Noisy thoughts and vulnerable reflections from my own experiences 📚 Syntheses of academic rese...

“The show must go on.” It sounds noble—heroic, even. But beneath its surface lies a troubling truth: for many singers and performers, this mantra becomes a quiet instruction to ignore the body’s pleas, override vulnerability, and press forward at any cost. Most of us have done it. We’ve sung through illness, performed while barely able to speak. It’s so common that it hardly feels like a decision. The culture rewards it, our peers expect it, and our inner voice—the one shaped by training and survival—often demands it. But what happens when we stop listening to the body? What is the cost—not only physically, but existentially—of performing through pain, injury, or sickness? Disembodied Expectations Western performance culture is deeply shaped by mind-body dualism—the idea, inherited from Descartes, that the mind is superior to the body, that reason must override sensation, and that control equals strength. This framework doesn't just inform philosophy—it permeates our rehears...

There was a time when singing felt as natural as breathing. Not just something I did—but who I was. From my teenage years, singing wasn’t a skill—it was my identity. It was how I connected, how I expressed joy, how I made people feel good. It made me feel attractive, wanted, visible. Before I knew I could sing, I didn’t think I had much to offer. But when I sang, people responded. And that response began to shape my sense of self. For years, I lived and worked as a singer. It was in my friendships, my social life, my work, my spirit. I belonged to communities of musicians. I was on stage. I was in the room. I was in it . And then—quietly—I wasn’t. When my voice began to feel unstable, when I no longer trusted it, I did what so many do with something precious and painful: I hid it. I didn’t talk about it. I didn’t announce anything. I just moved countries. I told myself I was starting a new life—and I was. But underneath that move was a quieter truth: I was finding a way to step o...

At some point, “fixing” became the entire focus. I had stopped performing professionally, but I hadn’t stopped searching for answers. Every vocal warm-up was an experiment. Every recording was an investigation. I zoomed in on tiny details, listened over and over, comparing myself to old versions of me—trying to catch the flaw, the crack, the thing that needed correcting. I became technical, analytical, relentless. And I told myself that this was discipline. That this was what singers do: we refine, we correct, we improve. But underneath all that effort was something else entirely. It wasn’t drive. It wasn’t care. It was fear. The Masochism of Mastery Shame wasn’t on my radar. At the time, I wouldn’t have used that word at all. I didn’t think I felt ashamed—I thought I was just trying to be better. But looking back now, it’s clear: the obsession to fix wasn’t just about the voice. It was a way to avoid the deeper wound. The wound of not being enough . Of feeling exposed. Of hav...

I can’t say exactly when it started. There wasn’t a dramatic moment, no sudden collapse on stage. Just a small, persistent wobble. A phrase that wouldn’t settle. A note that kept drifting out of tune. I noticed it once, then again, and again. And soon, I couldn’t not notice it. At first, I brushed it off—maybe I was tired. Maybe it was nerves, or the room, or something I ate. But it didn’t go away. It lingered. It embedded itself in my awareness like a splinter I couldn’t reach. And then the questions began. What’s wrong with my technique? Am I doing something differently? Why can’t I control it? What is this? I started recording myself obsessively, scanning for evidence of improvement—or decline. Each listen brought more dread. I could hear the instability, and I had no explanation for it. I didn’t feel tired. I wasn’t singing “wrong.” But something had shifted, and I couldn’t name it. When I brought it to teachers, I hoped for reassurance. Some did try. But others offered ...

                                     Let's be honest: Voice teachers often find themselves walking a very fine line. On the one hand, we're here to help. We offer tools, observations, and suggestions that (hopefully!) support our students with their vocal development. On the other hand our feedback can unintentionally pull a singer into a very tricky space - one where their previously "unnoticed" voice or body suddenly feels questioned or even ... wrong. (What if they were never bothered by that quirky way they make the vowel "Ah"? Or they love that breathy quality in their chest voice?) This is where one philosopher and physician Drew Leder gives us language for something that many of us instinctively understand. In The Absent Body (1990), Leder describes the concept of body dys - appearance. This is the way that the body tends to fade into the background when functioning smoothly, or yo...