Skip to main content

When Do You Turn It Off? (A reflection for singers)

I’ll bet you are seldom - if ever - alone in your embodiment.

You’ve internalised a deep understanding of what’s required of you:
the inner voices that instruct, correct, and sometimes confine your every movement and sound.

Do you ever wonder where it all comes from?
Do you question it?
Are you exhausted?

It’s no wonder, my love.
You carry a double helping of the world’s expectations - for you and for your body.

When you stood up and offered your voice, you invited yourself to be looked upon.
What you couldn’t have known was just how much of yourself you would give away - again and again.

That giving is beautiful - magical, even - and so very brave.

But here’s a truth:
the internalised visions of how others see and hear you come at a cost.
You must begin to unpack this, to understand it.

This stance - this way of living in the eyes and ears of others - becomes an internalised perception that shapes you every day.
And if you are female or female-identifying, the sting of it began long before you ever called yourself a singer.

Do you ever feel worn down by that inner chorus of opinions and judgements?
Can you imagine how much time, money, and creative energy they steal from you?

This isn’t “woo,” my love - it’s real.

Your mind, body, and spirit are stretched to capacity, so accustomed to this pressure that it feels normal.
But there is so much more for you
so many hidden gems of your creative self waiting to evolve.
They only need time and space.

I know you’re mocked for being “self-absorbed.”
Of course you are.
You live under a double dose of the third-person gaze
constantly self-objectifying, both functionally and aesthetically.

So my question is:

When do you turn it off?

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...

What Happened to My Voice?

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 ...