Right to Sing: Stories, Research & Reflection

Despite what you’ve been told - or what you’ve come to believe - your voice was never meant to be perfect. It was meant to be shared. We’ve all heard of the Inner Critic—that persistent little voice that assumes the roles of vocal coach, life coach, and talent show judge all rolled into one. It whispers (or shouts), “Was that flat?” “Do you even know what you're doing?” “Why can’t you sound more like them?” If you’ve experienced this, you’re far from alone. I’ve faced my share of vocal hurdles, including a lasting injury, and the Inner Critic has proven to be just as stubborn. I know its voice well. Over the years, my Inner Critic became one of the most persistent blocks in my singing life. It didn’t just make me doubt my singing - it made me doubt myself, and it killed my joy. Perhaps most insidiously, it fuelled a constant cycle of comparison. I’d measure my voice against others, silently keeping score, convinced that someone else’s brilliance meant I didn’t measure up. You could...

  This post is for the singers who’ve found themselves caught in an inner tug-of-war: Don’t be too much… but also don’t be invisible. Speak up… but don’t be difficult. Be passionate… but stay agreeable. It’s for those who’ve learned to soften their tone, shrink their needs, or apologise for taking up space — just to avoid being seen as “a diva.” I’ve heard these quiet negotiations in the voices of my clients. I’ve lived them in my own career. And I’ve seen how they can shape the body, the sound, and the very sense of belonging in a singing space. This isn’t about every singer’s story. But it’s a story I keep hearing — and I believe it deserves to be told. The Cost of Avoiding the Label For me, the word “diva” didn’t evoke power or artistry. It meant difficult. Demanding. High-maintenance. So I did everything I could to avoid becoming that — even when it meant biting my tongue, smiling through discomfort, or compromising my needs. I wanted to be seen as agreeable. Easy to wo...

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...

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 ...

  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...