Right to Sing: Stories, Research & Reflection

“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...

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...