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...

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...

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 ...

                                     Let's be honest: Voice teachers often find themselves walking a very fine line. On the one hand, we're here to help. We offer tools, observations, and suggestions that (hopefully!) support our students with their vocal development. On the other hand our feedback can unintentionally pull a singer into a very tricky space - one where their previously "unnoticed" voice or body suddenly feels questioned or even ... wrong. (What if they were never bothered by that quirky way they make the vowel "Ah"? Or they love that breathy quality in their chest voice?) This is where one philosopher and physician Drew Leder gives us language for something that many of us instinctively understand. In The Absent Body (1990), Leder describes the concept of body dys - appearance. This is the way that the body tends to fade into the background when functioning smoothly, or yo...

Being a singer often begins with a spark—a moment when someone notices your talent, when you’re told you have a “gift.” From there, a singer identity starts to take shape. But this identity isn’t formed in isolation. It is crafted through relationships with teachers, peers, institutions, audiences—and through the unspoken rules about what counts as "good," "worthy," or "successful." This construction of identity can be exhilarating and affirming. But it is also fragile—because it often hinges on acceptance or rejection from others. That’s where shame begins to creep in. Through reading countless articles and books on this subject I came to recognise my own vocal shame which crept up on me over time and culminated in the painful aftermath of vocal injury and a failed operation. For years, I had worked on my craft and career—not just because I loved singing, but because my identity felt contingent on it. I didn't quite see that my voice and "singer ...

For many singers, singing is far more than just a skill or job. It is deeply tied to identity, purpose, and even belonging. But with that deep connection comes a relentless, often invisible threat to the singer's sense of self. Unlike many other professions, singing demands the exposure of something deeply personal: your body, your emotions, your sound. And it places that exposure under near-constant scrutiny, it's no wonder that putting ourselves out there can feel risky and and knock- backs are taken personally. Singers live with a level of vulnerability that is rarely acknowledged. Our instrument is our body, and we carry it with us all day and everywhere - we are inseparable "musical-body-subjects". Any perceived or pointed out imperfection or inconsistency can feel like a personal failure, not just a professional one. And for many of us, these threats are ongoing, cumulative, and internalised. I want to take a moment to break down just a few of the potential thre...

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...