Right to Sing: Stories, Research & Reflection

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...

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...