A Change in Plans

I decided to move back to Minnesota three years ago this week in a panicked state. Hobbling around in my clunky medical boot, I packed my entire apartment at my dad’s suggestion. I knew I wouldn’t be coming back to North Carolina, as I already had plans to move closer to New York with my boyfriend at the time. My days in Greensboro were numbered; I just sped up that process significantly when forced by mother nature.

Packing up all of my belongings didn’t take very long, even as my broken ankle required me to take copious breaks and use crutches. I didn’t have much, and most of what I had is still packed in boxes in the basement, probably reeking of mothballs.

The process of packing up my bedroom. March 17, 2020.

My apartment in Greensboro was pretty depressing. I resisted the urge to make it feel like a home– that would’ve been a waste of what little money I had. I essentially lived by myself and didn’t bother to furnish the living room at all. It was literally empty. I never had anyone over– I usually stayed at my boyfriend’s house and gathered at other friends’ houses. I needed it to feel temporary, or I would worry I was settling somehow.

In March 2020, my life was looking pretty grim. I broke my ankle the month before, which forced me out of waiting tables and working for a character company, my two primary sources of income. My lovely friends drove me to and from my church job and the one teaching job I had– I only had four students at that time. The restaurant I worked at allowed me to host, but it was a fraction of the money I had grown accustomed to. My now ex-boyfriend left for a singing contract just days before I broke my ankle, so I couldn’t rely on him. I felt like quite a deadbeat. 

Of course, retrospectively, it was hilarious that I thought February 2020 was surely as bad as it could get.

I know it’s not pleasant to go back, but at this point, it almost feels like revisiting a fever dream– did March 2020 actually happen? I went from friends bringing me canned goods and supplies as if a hurricane was descending upon us to planning a cross-country road trip with my dad within two days. On March 15, as I packed my dismal amount of belongings, my dad began his journey south through the midwestern plains, Appalachian Mountains, and finally, to me, his pathetic 27-year-old daughter whose fragile existence crumbled easily under the weight of a crushed ankle and a global pandemic.

Pa and me, ready for a cross-country road trip as a pandemic panic gripped the country. March 17, 2020.

I left most of my items packed up in my bedroom and took only what I required for a month or two. It honestly wasn’t pandemic related– we figured that would pass within a couple of weeks. We just weren’t sure how long it would take my ankle to heal so I could drive my car back up to Minnesota, or wherever I went next– in March 2020, I began to plan my move to New York.

I asked my dad what he listened to on the drive down. Dad said he turned off the radio and just drove in silence for seventeen hours. That sounds like my own personal hell, but maybe my dad needed this impromptu road trip as much as I did.

Going into rest stops was weird. No one was wearing masks. Nobody knew how COVID-19 spread yet, so I just remember warily staying away from people and using copious amounts of hand sanitizer after pumping gas or arriving back to our car. 

On March 18, 2020, the day that the governor of Minnesota issued a stay-at-home order, I arrived at my parents’ house in Northfield, MN. I was a 27-year-old aspiring singer aging out of the YAP game with no source of income and a broken ankle. At least I had Seagle to look forward to. There, I would go straight from the prestigious opera training program to starting my life as a singer in New York. Only a few more months, and I would earn the life I thought I was supposed to live.

Wrong again.

April 2, 2020. I’m probably bored and am hoping to give the illusion that I’m creating something great like other artists. I am not.

As we all know, the pandemic lasted slightly longer than a couple of weeks. Seagle postponed their season to summer 2021. I spent my days making embarrassingly awful YouTube videos and my nights binge-drinking red wine and numbing out to every reality TV show Netflix had to offer. My unemployment ran out in July 2020. I got a job as a receptionist at a doggy daycare and embarked on a nearly two-year journey of what I thought was a vocal breakthrough and what actually turned out to be a breakdown both vocally and emotionally. I was desperate and made decisions only a frantic singer in their late twenties would make.

I decided in July 2020 to stay in Minnesota after retrieving my car and belongings from North Carolina. In the past, I had told myself I would never live in Minnesota again, that returning home meant I failed. However, moving to New York in August 2020 would have been awful, and I stayed because the feeling in my gut implored me to stay. I’m unsure if it was for Casey, because I was afraid, or because it was my worst plan ever, but I listened. And now, I’m here.

Life was looking up by October 2021.

Things were messy for a while there but started to come together after I returned from Seagle in 2021. I moved in with Casey. I started teaching voice and piano lessons through a couple of studios and obtained a handful of private students. A church hired me to be their soprano section leader. My teacher at the time wasn’t allowing me to audition or perform, but I felt I was improving vocally and was excited to magically come out the other side with agents clamoring to sign me to their roster and the Met knocking at my door.

Luckily, Madagascar was the next wake-up call I needed. I didn’t require anybody’s permission to be an artist. Being a singer didn’t look one way. There was still hope for me.

Then, my pesky polyp entered the picture. It was caused by overuse, misuse, and abuse. I shut down for a couple of months.

In case y’all forgot what my pesky polyp looked like. October 4, 2022.

This week, I’m flying down to Texas to record a new opera with colleagues from the Madagascar trip. I no longer wait tables or work as a receptionist– between teaching and performing, I’m a full-time freelance singer. I have a dog and live in a beautiful home with my boyfriend. The affinity for reality TV I developed early in the pandemic has developed into writing for a clickbait outlet. 

I tend to constantly strive for more, but three years after I arrived in Minnesota at what was probably one of the lower points in my life, I can honestly say I’ve turned it around. Being a freelance musician isn’t necessarily what I envisioned it would be, but I look forward to future projects, students, and artistic development. 

Recital at the Germanic-American Institute, February 2023.

Most artists are just now starting to see the light at the end of the nightmare of a pandemic tunnel. Auditions and productions are picking back up, at least from the companies that survived through their doors being shuttered for months, if not years. It’s been tough. I feel lucky that I made it out to the other side. 

I’m not going to go so far as to say the pandemic was helpful for me, especially when millions of lives around the globe were destroyed, but my life wasn’t in good shape before the pandemic hit. I haven’t been able to admit it until recently, but my life fell apart before COVID-19 struck.

Denial is a powerful drug, and the coronavirus is the only thing that brought me home to Minnesota. I’ll never know what my life would have been like without COVID-19, but the one I’ve built here looks pretty sweet, and it certainly doesn’t feel like a failure. After the past three years, I think I can give myself some grace.

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Make Art Song Fun Again

A brief background on the vibrant history of European art song tradition. Spoiler: it’s actually fun!

Salons. In the modern context, they’re a place to get a new haircut or a manicure. However, in the late 18th century through the early 20th century, a salon was where guests shared political ideas, music, art, and poetry. In European salons, the seeds of revolution were planted alongside the spread of petty gossip and the first performances of famous lieder. Salons were organized social gatherings, often hosted by bourgeoisie and noble women who had the fortune of having ample space and a piano. Guests at a salon would typically be well-educated in religion, politics, philosophy, science, and the arts. In other words, art song tradition is as rooted in elitism, privilege, and the upper class as opera is, unfortunately. Poor folks were not singing Schubert around the piano.

Jeunes filles au piano (Girls at the Piano) by Pierre-Auguste Renoir, painted in 1892.

It’s difficult to overstate what salons and the social status of owning a piano did for the popularization of lieder– it’s likely there would not be a vital art song tradition without both factors. Although the piano was invented in 1700, most folks preferred the harpsichord until Bach was convinced to try out a piano in the late 18th century. Due to his wild popularity, other composers, such as Mozart and Beethoven, also began playing and composing for piano in place of the harpsichord by the late 1700s. 

The popularization of the piano coincided with the rise of the middle class. Owning a piano was a status symbol and signified increased leisure time, especially for women. Playing the piano was more common for women of the expanding upper middle class, and it became an expectation for women to study and play the piano gracefully. Despite this, women were not encouraged to pursue a concert career or to compose music. Clara Schumann was one notable exception to both of these rules.

A salon in the late 1700s.

While 17th and 18th-century salons originated as a social endeavor, throughout the 19th century, they became much more intellectual and political. Believe it or not, the American Revolution was a hot topic of political discussion in French salons of the late 1700s! As Europe ushered in the Romantic era, salon culture heavily explored literature, poetry, art, and music. Romanticism emphasized passionate love, appreciation of beauty, and the largeness of the natural world and humanity’s relation to it. Lieder was the perfect vehicle for these sentiments.

Unlike operas, musicians did not typically perform art songs for large audiences in concert halls– the songs, often played on the piano by the composer himself, were sung by lay people in salons. Although the two are so often grouped together today because 19th-century lieder is sung with a classical singing technique, opera and art song are pretty different. Operatic singing takes years of training and practice to execute, but lieder were meant to be sung by anybody for small audiences of friends while drinking wine and talking politics. 

That’s our guy Schubert at the piano!

Today, art song is used as a vehicle for building classical singing technique when the voice isn’t quite ready to execute the vocal acrobatics of opera or to fulfill university requirements for juries and recitals. While art song became increasingly virtuosic and challenging for the singer as the tradition developed in the late Romantic era and beyond, it was intended to be accessible, evocative, and fun. Yes, lieder were supposed to be fun, not something a sophomore vocal performance major halfheartedly sings for a panel of their university professors to get an A in voice for the semester.

Salons weren’t accessible or equitable; they were purposefully selective and elitist. They were literally bougie. However, the original purpose of art song, to exchange musical ideas and emotions among friends, has been totally lost in our modern classical music practice, and it’s time to bring it back. Art song is casual; it’s meant to be sung by anybody; you’re supposed to drink a glass of wine, make mistakes, and start over. The composer might play what they write and then change their mind and rewrite portions before the next performance. Maybe someone sings a song, and another wants to sing the same one, so it’s performed twice in a row; maybe they make up some words here or there. Perhaps it becomes a political song, or words change to tease someone in the room. It just isn’t that serious. 

Looking hot at my master’s recital. UNCG, May 2019.

For my master’s degree recital, I dressed in a golden gown and sang French, German, and American art songs for a polite audience that clapped at the end of my sets like they were supposed to. I didn’t speak with the audience or use music and was the only one singing. I had to do a comprehensive exam where I explained everything I knew about these songs to a panel of my professors to earn the right to perform them. Because I’m a bit of a weirdo, I did perform some new songs about Ruth Bader Ginsburg and included staging, but that’s because I’ve always wanted to make classical music a little less stuffy.

Only singing art song in recital is not salon culture. That’s relegating a vibrant and invigorating art form to academia’s boring and regimented walls. Performance art is alive! Lieder encompasses what it means to be human!

Consider this essay merely an introduction to my shifting perspective on lieder. Conveniently, I’m actually singing some Schubert and Schumann in what I would loosely consider a salon setting at the Germanic-American Institute in St. Paul this Sunday, February 26, at 4 pm. Don’t hesitate to reach out for details. If you’d like to purchase tickets, click here.

Four awesome Twin Cities singers (Eryn Tvete, Josh Diaz, Jimmy Finch, and myself) are performing on the program alongside our fearless pianist, Emily Urban. We will discuss our pieces before performing them, so the audience gets a bit of context. It feels like one small step toward salon culture and away from the stuffiness of recital halls. 

Singing songs with friends while drinking wine and discussing politics and current events sounds much more fun than cramming for an undergraduate recital. Let’s make art song fun again.

Roses Are Red, Violets Are Blue

Here’s another corny post about singing because that’s what I do.

It’s Valentine’s Day, yet another heavily commercialized holiday in the United States, and most people fall into one of two categories. Some folks enjoy donning pinks and reds, giving or receiving chocolates, flowers, and other little gifts from loved ones, or eating an overpriced dinner amongst couples with the pressure of a marriage proposal looming overhead. Others shun the holiday entirely with a Scrooge-like “harumph” and an attitude of bitterness or sarcasm. Regardless, the somewhat controversial holiday is here, and it’s all about love.

Valentine’s Day rehearsal for Falstaff at UNCG, 2019.

Typically, Valentine’s Day consumerism is dominated by an expression of romantic love. It’s a nice acknowledgment of partnership, but the pressure makes it disingenuous– “Today, I have to show you I love you more because everyone is doing it.” It’s nice, but the whole thing feels a little forced.

However, like most holidays, I enjoyed Valentine’s Day growing up. My mom always got my sister and me little candy bags with notes about how much she loved us. Beautiful flowers and two cards (one funny Snoopy card and one gushingly romantic card) adorned the table as a present to my mom from my dad. The little boxes we made for Valentine’s Day at school were a thrill, and I loved reading into whatever Valentine my crush gave me– of course, it all meant nothing, as we were in third grade. But it was fun and lighthearted. Love can be like that, too.

Love is an ill-defined emotion shared among humans at a certain level of intimacy, romantic or platonic. It’s different for everyone and designates a relationship as important. I’ve made it a point to tell my friends I love them nearly as often as I do my family or boyfriend– I want people to know I love them. It feels good to be loved.

The love I felt for this hot chocolate and croissant might have matched my love of singing. Idk. Paris, 2020.

The physical sensation of the emotion of love is similar regardless of whether I love a person or an activity. Maybe this is normal; I’m not sure. We throw around the word “love” with various degrees of weight, like, maybe when I say, “I love this cheeseburger,” I don’t mean that I love that cheeseburger as much as I love my mom, but dang, that is a great cheeseburger.

Fine, I don’t love a delicious, overpriced artisanal cheeseburger as much as I love my mom, but I do love to sing as much as I love my mom. The physical sensation of love is the same when I sing as when I hug my mom. There’s less of an adrenaline rush, sure, but my body’s intense perception of love and joy at that moment is the same.

Yes, I forgot to save this to my phone before posting on Instagram. Please forgive me. St. Paul, 2023.

I had the pleasure of craning my neck in my partial-view seat at the Ordway in St. Paul to see the second-to-last performance of Minnesota Opera’s Daughter of the Regiment on Saturday. Regardless of comedic or dramatic outcome, operas tend to tell love stories, and this light-hearted, funny show was no exception. It tells the story of Marie, a young woman abandoned at a French regiment’s doorstep as a tiny baby. She is raised as a daughter of the regiment, with each soldier acting as a father figure to her, and creepily, she is expected to marry one of them once she feels ready to settle down and become a mom. Weird.

She falls while picking flowers one day and is saved by a Tyrolean man, Tonio. The regiment is not a fan of this burgeoning love affair since Tonio is not a soldier. He joins the French army to gain their approval just as Marie’s long-lost “aunt” comes by to say, hey, I’m royalty, so glad I found you, and you’re going to be a duchess and marry this Duke of Krakenthorp. Marie has a tough time being a lady, misses Tonio, and in the end, the “aunt” reveals herself as Marie’s actual mother (illegitimate child alert!), and she allows Marie and Tonio to get married while saluting France.

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again– if you think opera is boring, think again. Minnesota Opera’s next show is Don Giovanni, and phew, let me tell you, that one’s a doozy. If you missed Daughter of the Regiment, I recommend catching Mozart’s fiery tale in May.

Besides the engaging plot and sharp comedic timing, the singing was phenomenal. Marie and Tonio, the leading soprano and tenor roles, have some of the most challenging passages of bel canto repertoire. Both Vanessa Becerra (Seagle alum!) and David Portillo sounded magnificently free and joyous throughout the show. They love to sing. They worked for years to attain this level of facility in their singing, and their playful energy was palpable to the audience. It was electrifying and magical– everything I like to hear at the opera.

The first step in reclaiming my love of singing happened across the world in Madagascar. Antananarivo, 2022.

I lost my love of singing for a while. Singing was hard; I couldn’t get it right, I got fatigued all the time, and I didn’t like how I sounded. I was in my head, my breath was forced, and my high notes were non-existent. It wasn’t fun or joyful, and I certainly didn’t love it. I kept talking about quitting because, truly, what was the point of all this work for nothing when I didn’t even enjoy myself anymore?

I’m so grateful that changed over the past few months. 

I had a rehearsal for an upcoming concert last night, and it was thrilling to sing through some German art songs with a fabulous and fun pianist. The feeling of love rushed over me, and I remembered what makes music so addicting–that emotional response. It’s corny, but so is Valentine’s Day, so I’m calling it appropriate. Singing is as lighthearted and fun, like a childhood Valentine’s Day, as it is serious and romantic. I love to sing. I hate saying it that bluntly because I feel like a giant cheeseball, but it’s true. I try to instill that emotion in every lesson I teach, practice session I embark on, and audition or performance I sing. I don’t have to get every role, award, or accolade; I can just love the process. And as I continue my vocal recovery, I can acknowledge that’s enough to keep going.

For tickets to my upcoming concert, “Du mein Herz,” at the Germanic-American Institute, click here.

My Little Polyp Pt. 3

Healing is a process and a lifestyle change.

Click here for “My Little Polyp”

Back in the hot seat. University of Minnesota, 2023.

It’s been just over three months since I learned my polyp was gone. A month of relative vocal rest and heightened vocal care erased the polyp from my cords and left a minor hemorrhage and mild edema in its place. However, even back in November, as the relief washed over me, I knew the healing process wasn’t over.

At first, I was anxiously cautious. My singing felt amazing, but it also felt distant and timid. Any extra talking, and I felt guilty about socializing. As the demonstration crept back into my teaching, I wondered if I was doing too much. I allowed the holiday season to fatigue my voice and body and was left feeling irresponsible. However, my voice bounced back quickly because my voice was now okay. A day of extra singing or talking wouldn’t completely derail my week. I was going to be okay. It took most of these three months for me to accept that.

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The word that stuck with me after my appointment today was mindfulness.

As I sat in the all too familiar stroboscopy seat, I began to feel nervous. What if I wasn’t actually getting better, that I was fooling myself into picking up various gigs, recording projects, and social engagements? What if I had done too much, too quickly?

The laryngologist numbed my nostrils with the bitter taste of Afrin (it’ll clear up any cold symptoms in no time!) and slid the snake-like camera down my nose. Immediately, he uttered positive remarks about my recovery process, and the rest of the exam was a breeze of singing “ee” vowels and pretending to speak to my students about making a peanut butter sandwich to test my speech patterns. The laryngologist and speech-language pathologist both commented on how much softer my fold tissue is now. It used to be stiff and rigid; now I’m getting those nice waves again. Want to see my pretty folds??

I feel like you should know the drill by now, but these are VOCAL FOLDS. Get your head out of the gutter! You can also take this moment to tell me what a clearly amazing singer I am. Thank you.

As I stopped trying to artificially create pharyngeal space and weigh down on my larynx, my speech became more supple (it’s the first word that came to me, okay?) and free. My cords used to get all squat when I spoke– now they’re nice and long. See?

Look how long and pretty! The right vocal fold is still stiffer than the left, but this is significant progress.

After the laryngologist left the room, the speech-language pathologist sat with me to discuss the next steps. Luckily, she is also a singer and knows my current voice teacher. It felt serendipitous and reassuring at that moment that my voice teacher and this SLP are familiar with each other and are working together toward my voice and career recovery.

Although we celebrated my continued healing, she said I must remain mindful and vigilant regarding my vocal use. She sensed that I’m a full-speed-ahead kind of gal and advised me to stay cognizant of how my voice feels and sounds. Basically, my cords now reflect the “Broadway bump” that many musical theatre and pop singers have at all times without even knowing it. However, we sing higher in classical music and with much more impact since we are unamplified. She told me essentially that I’m not out of the woods yet, so to speak.

Knowing that this mindset is just a reality of maintaining vocal health as a singer is a daunting and frustrating task, but taking care of my instrument is vital if I want to continue teaching and singing professionally for many years to come. I’m lucky that my polyp could heal without surgery. I also feel fortunate that this didn’t happen when I had any significant contracts coming up. The timing for a vocal injury is never good when the voice is literal money, but I really do feel grateful in so many ways.

I’m singing and teaching more healthily. I’m shifting my career goals. I changed my vocal technique and the team surrounding me. I’m not saying I’m glad the polyp happened, but there are some very positive outcomes I never could have anticipated from what felt like the end of my world in October 2022.

Thanks for reading, and I appreciate everyone who seems genuinely interested in my vocal recovery journey. Singers: these injuries are so much more common than we are led to believe, and there’s no reason for us to feel shame. We’re vocal athletes, and it’s normal for athletes to get injured. The recovery process is just another sign of our discipline and endurance.

Victoria

Failing Forward

What does it say about me if I can’t keep my commitments?

Revisiting the sunny optimism of early January 2023.

I didn’t achieve any of the goals I set for myself in January– not a single one.

The blog has lately become an airing of my deepest grievances and insecurities. This unintentional openness has garnered more attention than any of my past blogs, even the ones about Taylor Swift’s Midnights or my polyp. I guess people like to see someone being honest about their struggles or something. I didn’t mean to become some beacon of vulnerability, but I’m continuing that today. All of your messages and comments have, frankly, emboldened me.

On to my latest failures.

I started January intending to practice daily, learn new arias, get back into regular lessons, consume zero alcohol, apply for three artist grants, actually get something out of the Met competition, and publish two blog posts per week. Oh, and I also intended to lose weight, but I left that out before because of my inability to reckon with the shame of participating in diet culture. So much for that– if you don’t know what I’m talking about, you missed last week’s blog post. (TW: disordered eating, body image issues)

Another failure: leaving peace signs behind in 2023.

A couple of weeks ago, I reached out to a teacher in the Twin Cities. I have an instructor with whom I do Zoom lessons, but I was advised that no one here in the Twin Cities knows me as a singer yet, and it might be wise to get involved with an instructor who has connections in the metro area. 

This voice teacher makes me believe the universe is giving me a second chance. 

Wait, I’ve said that before.

Fine, third. Or fourth. Honestly, I’m probably on my tenth chance, but you get my point. 

From the first lesson, she treated me like I knew what I was talking about, that I was intelligent, and that I knew how the voice worked. She taught me like a professional who just needs a good set of ears to keep me on track. There wasn’t a single time she treated me like a student; it was just a fellow musician guiding another. She didn’t promise me a career, comment on my appearance, or belittle my skills. I told her I just wanted to work, and she said, “you will.” That’s it. She didn’t pretend to be some all-knowing savior who had all of the answers: no toxicity, no gimmicks, no bullshit.

I became technically distracted by the idea of creating pharyngeal space and maintaining a low larynx, but in doing so, I unintentionally reintroduced tongue tension to my laundry list of vocal problems. My new teacher taught me some tongue stretches (yes, non-vocalists, tongue stretches) to help me relieve unintended pressure that I had confused with proper adduction. My vocal cords immediately began to adduct more freely and solidly than when I was forcing them together, a remnant of the coercive phonation I had to use with the polyp. 

I haven’t mentioned this on the blog, but my voice still fatigues sometimes, especially my speaking voice. Once I begin to feel fatigued, I start doing what my speech-language pathologist (SLP) calls “guarding,” where I try to be careful but somehow make it worse. I’m gripping my pesky tongue instead of letting it flop around! I am quite literally holding my tongue.

And all of you thought I had an inability to hold my tongue. Joke’s on all of you; I’m holding it all the time! HA! HA HA HA!!

All of this vocal nonsense was caused not by my inability to “speak like a singer” but rather by my attempt to sound like someone I’m not. 

There’s a metaphor in there somewhere. Let it come to us naturally.

I nearly canceled my appointment yesterday with my new SLP because my voice is doing mostly better. However, my better judgment encouraged me to attend the appointment, and I’m so glad I did. I was given a slew of tongue stretches and exercises specifically for injury recovery to tire out my tongue so it can’t interfere so much when I’m singing and speaking, gosh darn it. 

I have my high notes back. I can sing coloratura again. My vibrato is more even.

Ok, so back to my goals. I didn’t have a lesson and coaching weekly, but the lessons I’ve had have been transformative. I didn’t practice every day, but my practice sessions felt easy and productive. So, did I fail?

The shock I felt when I realized my last teacher still didn’t have all the answers. Insert, “I had to find the answers myself” quip here.

When I take the pressure off my cords and the base of my tongue, my voice isn’t quite as heavy as I thought. My young self hoped I had this huge voice that just needed years of time and wrangling, but in reality, I’m just a mid-sized lyric soprano that took longer to cook than others. Listen, I think I could sing a great Mimi, but the fact is, my natural color is a little less warm than what most casting directors are going to want from a full-voiced Puccini gal (but call me if you need a Musetta!) I was forcing that heft and darkness, which took away the cut and clarity of what my vocal cords wanted to do when I set them up correctly. It turns out I was on the right track a few years ago repertoire-wise; I just didn’t have the technical chops to execute my rep well.

So, I haven’t learned two new arias, but I am resurrecting three arias I loved to sing. They’ve all been on the shelf for at least four years. There’s a particular danger to singing old repertoire because the old technique can creep in, but these have been tucked away for so long that I can navigate them with an ease and spontaneity I never would’ve thought possible a few years ago. Does that mean I failed?

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Oddly enough, the Met competition and grants go together. I already talked about my Met competition experience, but I’ve moved past the feedback. My vibrato will be under my control once I stop clamping down on my tongue, and that’s already in the works. I reconnected with a colleague with whom I threw around new ideas for collaborations fueled by the two (not three) grants I applied for in January. We have some projects and ideas in the works for the next few months that may not have come to fruition if I hadn’t sung in the Met competition. So was that a failure?

A merry belated Princemas to all.

The real reason I wanted to do Dry January was less to do with my vocal health and more to do with my weight loss goals, but I didn’t say that before. I was ashamed that I lost all of my COVID weight and regained it in one year. I wanted to do it again and keep it off this time. 

Skinny people are disciplined. I am not skinny. Therefore, I am not disciplined.

This message is what my brain usually likes to tell me.

Alcohol is filled with empty calories, so why not forgo it for a month to jump-start my weight loss?

But then my weekend in Iowa happened, where ideas were shared over a bottle of wine. Princemas, the annual Christmas celebration with my best friends, was filled with laughter, stories, and drinks. A friend who came back into my life had a birthday party. I enjoyed a beer at a basketball game. 

All of these events were fun, and they would’ve been fun without alcohol, too. Maybe this one was a bit of a real failure, but I don’t feel that bad about it. I feel worse that I couldn’t lose weight this month, even though, in the same breath, I’m appalled and angered by diet culture. It’s tough for me to shake free from the roller coaster of gaining and losing a few pounds month by month as I balance my self-hatred with my desire to enjoy myself. Did I fail, or did I just force myself into a cultural expectation I didn’t want to uphold in practice?

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When I look back at all the ways I failed in January, I reflect on a pretty formative month. I began projects, revitalized my singing technique, and feel freer than ever vocally, both in my teaching and singing. There were numerous fun events, travels, and moments that forced me to have some conversations I’d been putting off. All in all, it’s been a great start to 2023, and I can’t wait to keep failing forward. 

I’ll see you when I see you– obviously, I didn’t hold myself to those two blog posts per week, but I’m grateful that what I have shared has resonated with readers. I hope you give yourselves some grace.

Victoria

Body Image as an Opera Singer

My own quest to stop fighting my body

TW: This post discusses body image, body dysmorphia, fatphobia, and eating disorders. If that’s not for you, I’ll see you next week. Take care.

As a performer, my body is under constant surveillance. Despite the stereotype of a “fat lady who sings,” the opera industry is nearly as fatphobic, at least with their female singers, as theatre, film, and dance. However, in the interest of fairness, the pressure for baritones to appear as “barihunks” certainly highlights the visual appeal that the opera industry is attempting to cultivate. What will get more butts in seats? Men with abs, of course!! 

Opera is an aural medium. The voice is the most important thing, and everything else is secondary. I love that about opera, and despite increasing pressure for high-level companies to produce recordings of their shows for streaming consumption, I hope it continues to emphasize the voice. That’s a primary factor that sets opera apart from other performing mediums.

Regardless, becoming an opera singer opened me up to criticism about factors outside my voice, and my physical appearance certainly wasn’t exempt from this. I have been told to wear short heels only to auditions because I’m already too tall for many tenors. I have been told my arms are too fat and I should cover them up. I’ve been told to not wear a particular dress because people can see my tummy rolls when I breathe. I’ve been advised that I looked thinner in college and should return to that. I was told that people wouldn’t trust I was a lyric soprano if I didn’t gain weight. Someone even suggested a nose job if I had the extra money. Young singers are notoriously flush with cash.

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Before I really get going, I have to begin with two caveats.

First, I fully recognize that I move through the world as a thin person. Ignore that my BMI (which is largely B.S.) edges on the questionable side of “healthy.” The need to fall within the green at any doctor’s appointment has remained a constant reminder of my failures.

Secondly, I am still unpacking my internalized fatphobia. I have fat friends. I do not view them as failures, yet, I consider myself a lesser person if I gain weight. The podcast “Maintenance Phase” has really helped me to start reframing this mindset, but I’m a work in progress. You’ll notice this throughout the post.

I just want to talk about the history of my relationship with my body and how being a singer has kept me constantly aware of how I look. It is not my intention to take out my tiny violin and boo-hoo my appearance when I know I am perceived as a relatively thin white lady. 

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Me in second grade. Duluth, MN, 2001.

The first time I remember becoming acutely aware of how my body looked to the outside world was in second grade. My dad took home video of my little sister’s backyard pool party, and I was there with my two best friends as well. There was a shot of me in my Minnie Mouse bikini I had proudly acquired in Disney World, and I noticed my tummy rolls as I happily slid down a slide into the pool, blissfully unaware I was markedly larger than my thin friends. I remember feeling intensely embarrassed as I watched myself onscreen, and looked down at my stomach. There were rolls. They’re the same rolls I have today, over twenty years later.

My friends in elementary school were all skinny. I was one of the smart girls– sharp, fast, and confident– and then I realized I was also a little fat. My friends were perfect dancer girls. They weren’t loud. I was everything all at once, rolls included.

I didn’t go through puberty at an earlier age than my friends, not really. Early puberty can happen with girls who develop more quickly. I just had a little more fat on my body, and my mom gently encouraged me to wear a training bra. She was so good. My mom never drew attention to the fact that I grew taller and fatter than my peers at a faster rate.

However, my already developing body image issues were exacerbated by a health problem that followed me through the rest of my childhood. When I was in elementary school, the school nurse noticed an unnatural curvature in my spine. Unfortunately, as I grew, the angle in my spine became more pronounced. As a precaution, she sent me to a specialist in town who diagnosed me with scoliosis and kept an eye on my back. The angle got more pronounced as I grew, and the doctor referred me to Gilette Children’s Hospital in St. Paul.

On February 2, 2005, in 7th grade, my doctor fitted me with a plastic brace to coax the right lumbar part of my spine back toward the center. I dieted for a week in advance since I knew I would be getting weighed.

I really hated getting weighed.

In the interest of honesty, I still hate getting weighed.

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I can’t find a single photo of me wearing my brace online, but here’s a photo of the type of clothing I was trying to wear under my extremely bulky scoliosis brace. I definitely should have been wearing my brace here. Northfield, MN, 2007.

The plastic brace really messed with my brain.

The right hip of the brace stuck out significantly, as it constantly pushed my spine back into place. The fashion in 2005-2007 was to wear a tight tank top with a polo or short-sleeved shirt layered over the top. It didn’t afford the luxury of subtlety. At a certain point, my body hatred overcame my desire to heal my spine, and I stopped wearing my brace to school. I felt like an alien, and I couldn’t do it.

Eventually, the jig was up. I had to start wearing my brace again. I followed the rules of wearing it 23 hours per day, seven days a week, followed by only needing to sleep in the brace after my doctor felt I was through puberty. Finally, I was at my last appointment during my junior year of high school. 

My doctor, a well-respected British man, happily shared that the brace mostly resolved my scoliosis, and it was safe to say I could stop wearing the brace without the worry of relapse. I was free.

Well, kind of.

The doctor noted that I had consistently gained weight since our first appointment when I was in 7th grade. Since I had gone through puberty, there was no reason for me to be gaining weight anymore, and I should lose some weight. 

I was horrified, embarrassed, and defeated.

It should have been a fantastic day! The brace had cured my scoliosis without surgery, which rarely happens. I should’ve been ecstatic.

Instead, a doctor who specialized in the spine needed to tell me that I, a 16-year-old girl, should lose weight. I’d like to mention here that I was not what was considered to be overweight, but I would still argue it wasn’t part of his treatment to comment on this regardless of what the scale said. 

I restricted myself to 1,000-1,200 calories per day and lost 25 pounds during my senior year of high school. No one was worried because I was never underweight. Looking back, I had definitely developed an eating disorder. Luckily for me, it only lasted a few months. I know it could have been much worse.

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My childhood obsession with my weight, unfortunately, followed me into adulthood. Throughout my adult life, I have navigated poor body image (I’m now told this is called body dysmorphia) and equated being thin with having discipline. Although I try to eat foods that make me feel good and exercise daily for my physical and mental health, too often, it devolves into calorie counting and shaming myself when I falter, which happens frequently. I feel constant pressure from myself and my industry to lose weight.

If I’m eating whole foods, restricting calories, and doing rigorous exercise daily, I’m a success. If I don’t follow my meal plan, I’m a failure. I’m trying to break this mental block.

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I’m seeing the opera industry change through criticism from singers, and I even see it in musical theatre. It’s refreshing to see a variety of bodies appear on the stage. When I saw Beauty and the Beast at the Ordway, the woman who played Belle was incredible and wasn’t super thin. I wish my little self could have seen her onstage or onscreen and felt unstoppable rather than defeated by my appearance. 

I want to celebrate my body rather than constantly ridicule it, but it’s complicated. I’m excited by the prospect of more inclusivity and representation happening onstage and am grateful for the loud voices in the industry pushing for that. I struggle with the anger that women are expected from birth to look beautiful for the enjoyment of men and also want to be perceived in a certain way. These thoughts constantly feel at war with each other as I unpack a lot of internalized shame surrounding weight. As I shift my mindset on singing, I am also trying to shift my relationship with my body. It’s the only one I have, after all.

I am very terrified to share this post today. I’m afraid of being called out for fatphobia or making people uncomfortable by sharing too much. I’m constantly scared that my openness will diminish my ability to book gigs. However, whenever I share my experiences, singer friends flood my inbox with gratitude for my transparency. So, I guess I’m writing for us. I hope we can continue to unpack the baggage associated with our appearance and advocate for centering the voice in the opera industry.

Thanks for reading.

Listening to Myself

Or, learning to trust my own ears and experience

Tell me you’re a millennial without telling me you’re a millennial. Ames, Iowa, 2023.

When I sing at a competition, I usually try to put my phone backstage or in the audience so I can record a voice memo of my performance and listen to myself afterward. Directly afterward. My heart is still pumping from adrenaline; I’m warm to the touch from executing vocal acrobatics for eight minutes straight. Hearing my performance played back is a way of prolonging that kick of excitement. Singing in public edges on terrifying in a way that makes it electric. I love it. I’ve spent a lot of tears and money just to get a hit of that addictive feeling.

I did not win at the Met on Saturday, which I consider neither to be a personal nor professional failure. My choice to compete in Iowa rather than Minnesota was complicated but made more straightforward because the pianist is my friend and colleague. Post-performance, I grabbed my phone and headed to the pianist’s studio to unwind. I lay on the floor and popped in my earbuds to listen to my performance.

“Why!” my boyfriend texted.

My brain was still swimming in post-competition fog. What was he talking about?

“You can’t feel how you did? I mean, why are you listening to your performance immediately after performing?”

“Because I’m a monster,” I answered, only half joking.

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He had a point. Why was I listening to my singing directly after my performance? Why couldn’t I just feel how I had done without listening to it secondhand and dissecting every melisma, breath, and vowel?

We are literally taught to do this.

Singers are instructed not to trust their own ears and experience. We’re always encouraged to seek someone else’s opinion, whether from a coach, teacher, director, or conductor. While this is helpful and necessary during our studies, we continue to devalue our views over time in favor of someone else’s long after graduation. I felt this impetus in my fellow competitors— I felt their hunger and eagerness. I felt it because I know it intimately, and it’s hard work to untangle myself from that mindset. Distancing myself from that familiar feeling is the only way to be an artist rather than a cog in an increasingly unreliable machine.

Listening to myself is a way of reliving the experience of performing while also forming my own opinions in retrospect on how I sang. I can then take notes on what needs to be improved objectively and provide feedback.

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As I announced to the judges and the audience I would be singing “Quando m’en vo’,” my brain popped in: why are you singing an aria that 22-year-olds offer? Pretty embarrassing! And then the other part of my brain chimed in, “you’re singing this because 30-year-olds actually get hired to sing Musetta, and you’ve got a fuller voice and enjoy a character role. Now shut up and sing.”

This dialogue happened before the pianist even played Musetta’s flirty opening theme. It took me a line or two to get out of my nervous/excited state (it’s hard to tell the difference sometimes), and then I was free. I had an absolute blast. They asked for my Mozart, a wickedly melismatic piece from Don Giovanni, which I hadn’t performed outside Seagle’s safe audition class walls, but it was ready for the public now.

My mind flicked to my old teacher, who assigned it to me as a vocal exercise. One lesson, he commented that I “might actually be able to sing this one day.” Well, that day came on Saturday, two years later. I recalled the time I once threw my phone across the room listening to a coaching of this piece because I thought I sounded so awful. I cried and yelled that I “still couldn’t fucking sing.”

I put it away for a while after that outburst. I’m glad I gave Mi tradì a second chance.

Somebody please stop me from continuing to throw up a peace sign in 2023.

I don’t listen to my recordings after I sing in a competition because I want to ruthlessly critique myself (usually); I do it because it almost always makes me feel better. I had a blast singing on Saturday, especially the Mozart. That piece can be disastrously dull, and I know for a fact that I made it exciting. It was exhilarating, and I hope it was also for the audience.

Anyway, back to not winning. I didn’t listen to anyone else sing that day except the three people before me, who I heard through the green room door. All three sounded fabulous and won awards that afternoon. Letting go onstage was enough of a win for me.

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The Met competition is attractive to young singers because it offers a slim chance at operatic stardom, and judges stay after the awards ceremony to give feedback to each competitor. This time with judges allows the panel to gush over the winners and explain to everyone else why they didn’t win. However, it is one of the few places to get direct feedback from an outside source as a young artist. Sometimes the feedback is valuable; other times, it is not.

When I take a step back, it’s pretty bizarre. I get onstage and perform vocal gymnastics that it has taken years to execute, and then I hear about everything I’m still doing “wrong.” Of course, wrong is usually subjective, so the best course of action is just to sing and not worry about what the panel wants to hear. For example, one judge felt I didn’t change tempi enough in Quando. That’s his opinion, and if he had been conducting me, I would’ve followed. How was I supposed to know that my interpretation was strawberry ice cream and he preferred mint chocolate chip?

Admittedly, I fell back into the young artist mindset during feedback. The first two judges were kind and complimentary but also picked on some minor aspects of my singing, some of which I agreed with and some I didn’t. I’ve been singing long enough to differentiate, but I still felt annoyingly defensive and frustrated.

When I got to the last judge, I was in a mood because I felt myself slipping headfirst down the slide of young artist mentality. After he offered some constructive criticism and praise, he shook my hand, and something came over me. I said, “can I ask you a question?”

Uh oh. The tears were coming. But I went for it anyway.

“I’m 30. Do I…like…stop doing this?”

Tears streamed down my face. It was horribly embarrassing. I almost didn’t include this anecdote, but I felt I had to be honest with all of you. Here I was, asking this man who heard me sing for less than ten minutes and spoke with me for maybe three minutes about his opinion on my life’s trajectory. What was this demon that came over me?

He looked bewildered. He replied with something like, “What? With an instrument like yours? You should only quit if you don’t love it anymore. This business is just hard.” And then he gave me a hug, or at least I think he did– it might’ve just been another handshake, but it felt like a hug.

I was horrified, but it was also kind of hilarious. 

I escaped upstairs to the pianist’s office and told her what happened, and she said, “it’s good for these judges to remember that singers are human beings and not singing machines.”

That made me feel better. The demon was gone.

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If you’re wondering if I’ve always been cool, the answer is a resounding yes. I highly recommend Dog-Eared Books in downtown Ames, Iowa.

I spent the rest of the weekend exploring downtown Ames and making handmade jewelry with a cat in my lap. For your information, Ames has a barbecue place that is better than some North Carolina BBQ I’ve consumed over the years, which was a welcome surprise. 

My pianist friend and I said “cheers” to never calling myself a young artist again this weekend. I have a handmade pair of earrings and a new attitude to commemorate the occasion. 

A dear singer friend texted me on Sunday asking, “so, what’s next for you?” and I simply responded, “who knows.” He immediately replied, “who cares.”

Who knows; who cares. It certainly won’t be boring.

Let’s just say I assisted Jodi without overstating my involvement in making these earrings.

Ode to Young Artists

Saying goodbye to the opera pipeline

I’m done being a young artist. I would say it’s been a good ride, but it hasn’t.

I’m competing in the Met (now known as the Laffont Competition) for the last time this Saturday. However, I’m barely viewing it as a competition– I’m retiring my young artist mentality while still giving it one last go. As my hand-boiling pianist, Dobby the house elf, would say, “just go beyond the fuck it.” 

“GBTFI” is scrawled across the top of many arias in my binder, but I rarely achieve it. I care so deeply about how others perceive me that it strangles my ability to produce art. I respect people who say, “I don’t give a fuck” and mean it because I give so many fucks. So, I’ll let you know if I’m able to GBTFI this weekend. That’s the goal.

My first time competing in the Met. Hint: I did not win. Columbia, SC, 2017.

The Met competition is a magical place where eager young singers fresh from their conservatories sing careful performances of well-known arias as if to say, “PLEASE pick me.” It’s academic and cautious. Technically near-perfect winners emerge to sing their pristinely coached arias at the next level. Some winners have fabulous careers at the Metropolitan Opera, and others disappear into obscurity. This industry has no sure way forward, but winning the Met competition does help.

Thirty is the soft cutoff for breaking into the opera industry through young artist programs, colloquially known as YAPs. Certain companies will hear artists through age 35 for a young/resident artist position, but most are looking for the youngest candidate with the shiniest resume and surest technique.

I believe this attempt at a thirst trap was posted when I had three auditions in one day. I did not book any of them. New York, NY, 2019.

For those outside the niche world of opera, let me explain what YAPs are and the traditional pipeline for young singers.

First, we should start with the journey to becoming a young artist in the first place. Most opera singers attend a four-year university or conservatory and graduate with a Bachelor of Music in Voice. During this time, they take lessons with a teacher, study music theory/aural skills, music history, acting, diction, and languages, coach with a pianist, and perform in juries and recitals. The best training programs will stage complete operas, usually with graduate students in the leading roles, but smaller colleges will mount opera scene programs. Where students obtain their undergraduate degree matters considerably for the connections their teacher will have with young artist programs and pay-to-sing programs and the school’s reputation. It will impact their ability to get into a top-tier graduate school.

I went to a choir college because I thought I wanted to major in music education, and then I stayed once I switched my major to vocal performance. Although some singers from Concordia have gone on to have traditional operatic careers, it is not nationally known as a training ground for opera singers. Strike one.

Generally, undergraduates are told the next step is going to graduate school. If a young singer is exceptionally talented and their school is a pipeline for specific pay-to-sing programs (these are precisely what they sound like– you pay to spend a summer doing more training with talented young artists,) they might graduate with some pre-professional experience. I spent my senior year at Concordia making recordings and auditioning for various grad schools for which I was not qualified due to my shoddy technique, lack of performing experience, and singing in the incorrect fach. Although I got into several programs, I didn’t get money. A wise professor told me not to go to graduate school unless I got a full ride because otherwise, I’d be paying for someone else to go to grad school. 

I took a year off. I gained performing experience in the Twin Cities but didn’t find a teacher. I coached arias, but my singing wasn’t improving. I auditioned for two more graduate schools and got into UNC Greensboro, but they weren’t giving out scholarships that year. The teacher I wanted to study with advised me to move down to North Carolina and study with her for a year because the potential was there, but I needed the technical work, and I did. I spent the year studying with this teacher, but I also spent the year waiting tables and becoming entrenched in server life. I got the scholarship in the end, but in a way, I wasted two years. Strike two.

First day of graduate school, 2017. Greensboro, NC.

Back to the perfect young artist– let’s say they get into one of the name-brand graduate schools or conservatories. During their two years of graduate study, they will take all the same classes they took in their undergraduate degree (not even kidding), plus some vocal pedagogy courses. Hopefully, they will graduate with pristine technique, a couple of pay-to-sings or low-level young artist programs under their belts, a district win at the Met competition, and are ready to audition.

Alright, so let’s talk about auditioning for young artist programs. There’s this website that looks like it hasn’t been updated since 1995 called YAP Tracker, and it’s where pretty much every company posts their auditions for young artists. Accessing this website costs $55 per year (or $95 for two years). There are also many competitions, training programs, and general scams to suck young artists dry of what little money they have listed as opportunities on the site. 

During the pandemic, many opera companies finally got rid of their application fees, but before this, most companies charged between $5-$50 to apply to their company. Can you imagine paying money to apply for a job, not knowing whether or not you’ll even get an interview? In 2019, I paid over $1000 in application fees alone. I didn’t receive auditions for over half of those companies. We can talk about my stupidity later, though.

Generally, there are summer YAPs and year-long resident artist contracts. Some premiere summer YAPs include Santa Fe Opera, Wolf Trap Opera, Glimmerglass Opera, Merola Opera, and Des Moines Metro Opera. They are extraordinarily competitive to get into, and young artists spend the summer singing in the chorus in exchange for networking, connections, coaching, visibility, and a small wage. Many talented young singers are hired for these opportunities while they are still in graduate school or shortly after completing their degrees. Although each company will employ a couple of dozen artists, the positions are extraordinarily competitive, especially for sopranos, who make up nearly three-quarters of all auditioning young artists.

Year-long residencies are reserved for those artists who have completed their formal training and are hired to serve as chorus, covers, small roles, and outreach artists with a company for their entire season. Usually, these artists include one soprano, mezzo-soprano, tenor, baritone/bass, and pianist. They are extraordinarily competitive, especially for sopranos. Do you see a pattern here?

It’s essential to post bathroom selfies while in New York because otherwise, how will people know you were granted auditions???? RIP Shetler Studios. New York, NY, 2019.

So, what’s on this application? Although they can vary by company, applicants generally have to provide proof of their date of birth, a resume, and headshot, and send 2-3 video recordings of contrasting arias made within the last year. Within two weeks or (hopefully) more of the audition dates, applicants are notified whether or not they have received an audition with the company. Rejections are called “PFOs” or “please fuck off” because they generally don’t offer any feedback or reason for why artists weren’t granted auditions. It is not recommended to reach out to companies for feedback (unless they say so); hence, the emails are a (usually) kind and professional way of saying PFO.

Most companies hold auditions in New York in October-December, and some also hear artists in Houston, Chicago, Cincinnati, or wherever their company is located. Artists are responsible for travel expenses and sometimes securing a pianist for the audition. At the audition, young artists offer one aria of their choice and present the panel with 3-4 additional arias in different languages and styles and sometimes a musical theatre piece. Generally, the panel will choose one more aria to hear, say thank you, and that’s it. Most auditions are around seven minutes long. If they want to chat, that’s a good sign. Some singers get offers in the room, but this is rare. Companies usually call or email to extend an offer within a few weeks of auditions.

This year, I got an email from a prominent company that said they received 1,200 applications and granted 400 singers auditions for something like 30 spots. That’s for a prestigious summer YAP. I figured out for another company, a year-long residency, that they are hearing 150 singers for four spots. Someone I know in the industry shared that nearly all of the 200 applications they had received so far were from sopranos. If you’re attempting to do any math here, our odds as young artists are not good. 

An old teacher of mine said music is one of the only industries he can think of where if you’re not the best, you don’t get a career at all. Think about it– there are star doctors, but there are also mediocre doctors. No mediocre musicians are making a living off of being a musician.

I’m so grateful for my summer with Seagle. World premiere of Harmony, Seagle Festival, 2021.

Right before the pandemic, I got into one of those prestigious pay-to-sings on a full ride. I thought this was finally it. Finally, I was breaking into the young artist track. Sure, I was 27, but it was better late than never, right?

Hello, COVID-19! But, I found an excellent teacher. We went back to basics. I improved; I went to that summer program in 2021 and was finally on my way.

Some things are not meant to be, and I’ll leave it at that. Strike three.

Some singers go from conservatory to young artist programs to management to mainstage careers. That is the path. However, many singers don’t fit into this path. Some go into academia or go to Europe, others start winning competitions, and some go into church music, professional choral work, or musical theatre. Many young artists in the traditional pipeline get burned out before they can break into mainstage gigs. Lots of people leave the industry. It’s expensive and can be disheartening.

Something I lost in chasing the YAP track was the joy of singing and my sense of creativity. I wasn’t playful or imaginative anymore. I was the singer nervously showing up to the Met competition and begging the panel to pick me. 

Well, I pick me. I applied for two grants for projects of my own creation yesterday. Those are competitive too, but I feel good knowing I’m in the driver’s seat for once. I have more control and agency than I thought.

This post isn’t a “poor me, here are all my excuses” lament. I made mistakes. I’m still working through years of technical woes. I don’t feel bad for myself.

I can’t talk about what it’s like at these prestigious programs (I’ve heard some wild stories), but I can speak to what it’s like to be on the outside, desperately trying to claw my way in. A handful of singers have contacted me to say they appreciate my honesty about my experience and the industry, so this is for them. There are genuinely fabulous singers at companies, universities, and programs around this country, and if you know anybody who is a consistently working classical singer, appreciate they have indeed risen to the top of an incredibly cutthroat career.

It feels so good to shed the young artist mentality. After years of study, practice, and performance, I can finally acknowledge that I know what I’m doing. I have valid thoughts on the music I’m singing and don’t need to be told what to do. I recognize where I need to continue growing as a singer and practice that improvement without judgment. 

I don’t need to ask permission to be an artist. I’m here.

Goodbye, YA life. It works for some singers, but it was never for me.

New Year’s Resolutions Versus Actionable Goals

Why set myself up to fail when I can enable myself to succeed?

Herbie’s new year’s resolution for 2023 is to drive me crazy while I try to work!

The level of cortisol that floods my body in the last week of December feels increasingly uncomfortable every year. Those days between Christmas and New Year’s Day fluctuate between profound laziness and rigorous goal setting. Not only do we spend half of the month stuffing ourselves with delicious treats and socializing far more than usual, but our culture expects us to come out the other side with a laundry list of goals for the following year. It’s almost too much for my little brain to handle.

“What’s your new year’s resolution?”

I’m naturally goal-oriented, but sometimes I fall into the trap of setting goals so vague or huge that I automatically set myself up for failure. I’m trying this year to set smaller monthly goals that will contribute to my overall progress. Maybe this is something you’ve heard before, but I call them actionable goals.

Goal-setting is good for us—our motivation, focus, and productivity increase when we set actionable goals. Even if we don’t achieve the targets we set for ourselves, pursuing a goal engages our brains and encourages perseverance. That’s pretty cool.

We often set new year’s resolutions that require a massive lifestyle upheaval. Most people abandon their half-hearted attempts to save more money, lose weight, or change careers within two weeks. Interestingly, around 43% of folks who make a new year’s resolution expect to fail by February. Imagine if we change our mindsets to believe we could achieve our goals! 

This year, I’m trying something different to manage expectations and eliminate that pesky failing-by-February factor. If I set month-by-month goals, I am less likely to give up by February– doing something for a month is far less daunting than taking it on for the year.

Herbie’s second resolution is to take more naps.

Most people quit their new year’s resolutions by February because they lose motivation. If you know me well, you’ve already heard my thoughts on motivation, but if you haven’t, I’ll lay it out here. Before I get into trouble, I’d just like to say this mindset is effective for me (most of the time), but that doesn’t mean it’s the right way of thinking for everybody. Do what works for you– I’m just sharing a trick I use.

Ok, so here it is: motivation doesn’t really matter. Rarely am I motivated to do the things I do. I hardly ever feel like working out, but I do that almost daily. I am seldom inspired to practice singing and work on my rep, but I do that, too. I didn’t feel motivated to write this blog post today. I’m not motivated to write lengthy grant statements or edit clickbait articles for the freelance writing training I’m going through. However, it doesn’t matter if I’m motivated– if it’s on the schedule for today, I just do it. Within 5-10 minutes of initiating the task I set out to do, I no longer dread it. 

So, regardless of my motivation, my actionable goals for January are listed below. I was scared to share them with you, but I think it will help me stay accountable.

Victoria’s January Goals:

• Attend one lesson and one coaching weekly
  • Now that my voice is improving, I need to stay accountable with my repertoire preparation and technical goals alongside professionals who know my voice and have a good ear.
• Practice 20 minutes per day 5x weekly
  • I’m surprised at how much I can accomplish in 20 minutes, but I haven’t gotten into the habit of regular practice since the polyp. If my voice continues to improve, I hope to up this to 30 minutes in February! Musicians will know this is hardly anything, but I need to remain vigilant in my vocal use and not over-practice, which was part of my problem leading up to the polyp diagnosis.
• Implement feedback received at Met Competition
  • I almost bowed out of the Metropolitan Opera’s yearly competition (again) but decided that since this was my last year to compete, I would go. I want to take my feedback to my teacher and coach and make it a technical and artistic focus over the next couple of months. It’ll be an excellent way to jump-start my performing for the year and receive feedback in the business.
• Learn two brand new arias after the Met Competition with a focus on competition arias
  • I’m done auditioning for YAPs, but I’d like to be competition ready by next season. Nobody has gotten my fach entirely correct, so I want to pick pieces that I like to sing and aren’t too heavy for my voice (this, I believe, was another issue contributing to the polyp– over-darkening my voice to fit into bigger repertoire.) No better time than January to begin anew! 
• Apply for three grants for artists
  • Applying for grants is a new skill for me and takes time and effort. However, it is an excellent way for artists to receive funding for creative endeavors.
• Publish two blog posts per week
  • As I introduce more singing into my life, I don’t want to lose building my writing skills and platform here with you all. I’m continuing with two posts per week despite increasing responsibilities elsewhere!
• Dry January
  • I’m joining many of you on this one for my vocal and physical health. I’m not worried about this since I eliminated alcohol in October and most of November.

As you all can tell, I’m definitely not quitting singing. My monthly goals are actionable and reasonable yet push me in the new direction I’m headed. I feel a little intimidated by this list, but not completely overwhelmed. If I had simply listed the following:

• Schedule coachings and lessons
• Practice more
• Learn new arias
• Apply for grants
• Keep blogging
• Don’t drink alcohol for a while

I would have been setting myself up for failure because these goals are neither specific nor actionable.

Herbie’s last actionable goal is to render our shower unusable.

I want to share a final thought on my monthly resolutions or goals–it fills my soul to do stuff like this. I would feel like a lost sheep if I didn’t force myself to improve or achieve something. However, I get it if you can’t wait for this first week of January to be over so people will shut up about this crap. 

If you’re like me, and you want to set those resolutions but are worried about failing or holding yourself accountable, I encourage you to make monthly goals alongside me. I’d love to hear about them– it will keep me going too. 

Unlike last week, I’m excited about my trajectory this month instead of scared. I can stick to these goals this month and set 2023 up to be the best year yet, or at least better than last year, which shouldn’t be too hard.

Set some goals, enjoy the journey, screw motivation, and forgive yourself if you fail. It’s all just an experiment, anyway.

2022: Parting Thoughts

The view that changed my mindset. Mantasoa Lodge, Madagascar, June 2022.

Rarely do we notice the trajectory of our lives change in an instant except in retrospect. I had one of those moments in 2022, but it took me months to internalize it. Staring out into Lake Mantasoa with a cup of Malagasy coffee in my right hand, I listened passively as two creative colleagues discussed future projects and grant applications, only half listening. After all, I planned to keep studying with my teacher for a few months until I was magically the desire of every young artist program and agent in the country. As I zipped up my pink raincoat to brace myself against the morning breeze, their attention turned toward me.

“Victoria, if you could design any artistic project for yourself, what would it be?”

Flustered, I said, “I’m not really a creative person. I just want to have a traditional career.” I will never forget my reply.

Years ago, I should’ve figured out that a “traditional” music career would never happen for me. 2022 is the year I finally started to embrace that.

By the end of the trip, I had resolved to apply for two prestigious grants and felt like a genuine performing artist for the first time in over two years. Everyone there viewed me as a colleague–not a technically deficient student, but a fellow musician. I lost that feeling somewhere in the endless rejection and criticism. Sometimes, you just have to go to a different continent to gain perspective, I guess.

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Fast forward a few months, and I’m nervously retooling my definition of being a working artist. I have a pesky tendency to plow through my life full speed ahead without acknowledging my growth and setbacks, never satisfied with my progress or trajectory. What better time to look at myself than the end of an especially precarious year?

I’d be lying to you if I said this year was easy. I was able to hide my failures behind the walls of the pandemic, but after two years of a career-imploding tornado, this was the year I finally had to clean up the mess left behind. I’m still picking up what’s left and figuring out what I can do with them. I sort of feel like a puzzle missing a few essential pieces.

When I look back on this year, I will remember sleepless nights with a new puppy that my old voice teacher told me not to get because she would “be a distraction.” I’ll remember almost backing out of the Madagascar contract, which was professionally and personally life-changing. I’ll remember mourning the end of a toxic relationship and healing other connections that had endured damage for one reason or another. I’ll recall running my voice into the ground and planting the seeds for vocal rebirth. Either I’ll look back and think this year was when I was able to shift my singing career in a way that would change my life for the better or was the beginning of the end of my musical goals. I don’t know that part yet.

Ready to giddy up into 2023 sans polyp with my doggo- October 2022.

Looking forward to 2023, I’m uncertain but optimistic. Singing is taking me abroad at least twice next year. I’ve developed new goals and project ideas with mentors and collaborators, so stay tuned there, too.

I came as close as I ever have to quitting singing in 2022, which caused me to think deeply about the things I like about being a musician. I like being challenged, problem-solving, working with others, self-motivation, attention to detail, being in front of people, and having a flexible schedule. There are careers outside of singing where I could have those things. Unfortunately for me, the things I love most are music, singing, and the arts. So, here I am– not quitting a career that seems to want to abandon me consistently and figuring out where I can meaningfully and realistically fit into this incredibly cutthroat industry. I’m open to widening what that means.

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The last thing I want to say this year is thank you. Writing this blog kept me focused when I was at one of the lowest points of my life. I have a paid freelancing gig that I’m starting in the new year because you all empowered me to keep writing– I finally felt good at something. Every time you reached out to me to say you enjoyed a post, that my honesty spoke to you or that I made you laugh kept me going and allowed me to open up my interests and skills to another medium outside of music. I honestly can’t thank you all enough for reading my selfish ramblings twice per week. You give me hope.

Happy New Year, everybody.

Victoria