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...