Right to Sing: Stories, Research & Reflection

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 ...

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...

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 ...