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...

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 ...