Skip to main content

Leading with the Heart: What Singing Taught Me About Intelligence

I’ve always led with my heart.

Even as a young singer, I was attuned to emotional nuance — mine and others’. That sensitivity became one of my greatest strengths in performance and in teaching. I could read a room and respond accordingly. I could feel the shifts in energy. When teaching I could intuit when a student was holding back, even if their technique looked solid.

But leading with the heart isn’t always easy.

For me, emotion often weaves itself into thought. A small moment — a glance, a phrase, a missed note — can spiral into a flood of internal stories: “What did they mean by that?” “Did I do something wrong?” “Am I too much?” and the fawning and shape shifting begins!

In singing, this kind of emotional overdrive can knock me off-centre. Suddenly, I’m not in my voice anymore. I’m in my head about my feelings, trying to make sense of them, fix them, soothe them. It’s exhausting — and not particularly helpful when I just want to sing.

Over time, I’ve learned something simple but powerful:
When I reconnect to my body — through breath, gentle sound, and movement — the stories soften. The feelings settle. The voice returns.

Three Centres of Intelligence — A Clue to Integration

Through my work with Enneagram theory and coaching, I have been introduced to the idea that we all possess three core centres of intelligence:

  • the head (thinking, analysing),

  • the heart (feeling, relating), and

  • the body (doing, sensing, grounding).

Each of us leads with one, supports it with another, and tends to neglect or suppress the third. While this isn’t a pathology, it can become a pattern that limits how we learn, create, and respond to challenge.

This information was a revelation to me and my personal development, and over time I began to use it within my teaching. 

Noticing the Centres in My Students

Some lead with the head — brilliant analysers, quick thinkers, questioners, who want to understand before they risk being heard. Others lead with the body — physical, grounded, wanting to get things done, often highly capable but sometimes disconnected from emotional nuance or inner reflection.

And then there are the heart-led students, like me — open, expressive, sometimes flooded with feeling, and always wondering how they’re being received.

It’s not that any one approach is “better” or “worse.” Each has its gifts. But when a student is stuck — whether in technique, confidence, or expression — it’s often because they’re over-relying on one centre, while another sits quietly in the background.

When integration begins — when a head-centred singer starts to trust their emotion, or a body-led student softens into feeling — something opens. It’s subtle, but unmistakable.

There’s more breadth.
More presence.
More voice.

Because the gold is in the curiosity of discovering parts of ourselves that open new pathways. Why rely on one or two intelligences when there are three?

A New Way of Thinking About Learning

This idea — that we each lead from a particular centre, and that the journey of learning is, in part, a journey of integration — has become central to how I teach.

It’s a framework that helps me meet each singer where they are, with compassion and clarity. And it helps them understand themselves not just as voices to be fixed, but as people with unique internal maps (and forgotten territory!)

This isn’t therapy. But it is transformational.

And I’ve created a training for singing teachers who want to explore this further.


 Coming Soon: The Three Centres of Intelligence in Singing Teaching

This is a shame-sensitive, embodied, and philosophical approach to working with singers — one that honours the full human, not just the voice.

  • Reach out if you’d like to be part of the first cohort: lisapvoice@optusnet.com.au

  • Or simply keep following along as I share more reflections in the coming weeks

Subscribe to the blog

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Perfectionism, Singing, and the Quiet Toll on Mental Health

Perfectionism is a term we hear often in the arts, and in some circles, it’s even worn like a badge of honour. Many singers—including myself—take pride in setting high standards, and tireless preparation. But what happens when that drive to be perfect starts driving us ? I’ve spent much of my professional life in and around singing—as a performer, teacher, and now as a researcher. One thing I’ve noticed again and again is just how many singers identify as perfectionists. We often see it as a bit of a quirk or strength: evidence of our commitment, work ethic, and respect for the craft. And yet, for many of us, perfectionism hasn’t been a source of freedom. It’s been a source of suffering. In psychological literature, perfectionism is increasingly understood not just as a trait, but as a process —a way of thinking, behaving, and relating to oneself that can deeply affect emotional wellbeing. Self-oriented perfectionism, in particular, is common among musicians. This is the kind where t...

The Singer Who Doesn’t Sing

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...

When a Voice Becomes a Thing: Objectification in Singing

Establishing the Ground I’ve been dancing around this for a while—wondering whether to lay down a kind of philosophical welcome mat for anyone curious enough to follow my writing. Part of me hesitated (I do love to leap straight into the deep end), but I know I use certain terms— shame , objectification , embodiment —that deserve some unpacking. So this post is a beginning. Or rather, a bridge. Over the next few blogs, I’ll share some of the frameworks that have shaped my research and teaching. None of them are fixed. They’re evolving—much like the singers I work with, and like me, as I keep reading, listening, and learning. These concepts don’t belong to me. But I’ve been holding them up to the light, testing them against real experiences. They’ve helped me understand something about the inner lives of singers—the quiet pressures and unspoken hurts—and I think they might help others, too. This isn’t about airtight definitions. It’s about naming the waters we’re swimming in—so we ...