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.

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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

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

Who Am I?

(For my musical theatre people: I’m Jean Valjean)

Allowing ourselves to just “be” rather than constantly “do”

Look, I climbed a literal mountain! Our social media addictions feed our desire to showcase accomplishments. Hurricane Mountain, The Adirondacks, September 2021.

I had ample opportunity to track my accomplishments as a kid. The millennial generation was known for our participation awards, but I never needed those (hair toss). I got good grades, made it into honors bands and choirs, and performed roles in school plays and musicals. I didn’t need a participation award to quell my eternal need for attention; I already got it when I excelled. You’ll notice that sports are nowhere on my list of school activities– I wasn’t good at them. In fact, I was downright awful–my brain just can’t fire those hand-eye coordination neurons very quickly. I avoided what didn’t garner immediate external validation.

Since we as Millenials spent our childhoods showered with praise for our accomplishments, it’s no wonder many adults today define themselves by their jobs. I have the distinct pleasure of not having the career I want and aligning the entirety of my person with that lack of a meaningful operatic career. It’s not a healthy combination.

A couple of weeks ago, I wrote a precursor to this post about grit. For more on passion, perseverance, and grit, CLICK HERE.

I lamented on Instagram that I had no auditions in October 2019, but it was okay because I didn’t define myself as only a singer anymore. If only I had been telling myself the truth and not just trying to comfort myself with likes on social media. Greensboro, NC, 2019.

A couple of years ago, I tried to define myself not as a singer but as a whole person who sings. This shift in mindset was a lovely thought on paper, but what I neglected to cultivate was the actual practice. 

I didn’t and haven’t stopped associating my worth as a person with my identity as a singer. For example, I am more worthy if I perform well or have an excellent coaching; I am garbage if I get rejected from multiple auditions or don’t sing as well under pressure as intended. 

The untangling began when I was diagnosed with a vocal injury in October and was embarrassed to identify as a singer. Could I even call myself a musician without gigs or auditions on the horizon?

When I stop defining myself as a musician, my other identifying traits trip me up. Ok, well, now I want to be seen as attractive and healthy, so I take the time to style my hair, makeup, and clothes. I make a spreadsheet measuring my macros so I can eat well and exercise daily. Oops- I ate a cookie at a friend’s house, snacked on some chips, or had a couple of glasses of wine. I didn’t feel like cooking, so we ordered DoorDash. I didn’t push myself as hard as I could have in my workout. Now, with my tummy full and my pants tight, I lament that I have failed to uphold the beauty standard I set for myself. Why is it so hard to become thin? Why do I care about this, anyway?

Ok, so I won’t be the fittest person alive. That’s fine; I like food too much anyway. Let’s focus on some of my other traits. I may not be the best singer, but I am disciplined and hard-working. My to-do list stares me in the face, daring me to get started or fall short of my expectations. I sit at my tablet to write, edit my samples, and fix my cover letters. Ding! A text from a friend. Ding! An email; I’d better see if it’s about an audition. Ok, it’s not, but suddenly I’m on Instagram scrolling through other singers’ successes. Ok, back to writing. Back to practicing. My puppy needs to go outside. Is it already time to leave to go teach voice lessons? Jeez, somebody needs to vacuum in here. 

What an incredible surprise and disappointment when I realized I was less disciplined than I thought. After all, if I were genuinely disciplined, that Excel sheet measuring my macros would be no problem. Does your brain do this to you, as well?

Disconnecting my identity from what I do is more complicated than I thought it would be.

Sometimes, I get to wander through the literal wilderness, not the proverbial wilderness of my shortcomings. Mantasoa Lemur Sanctuary, Madagascar, June 2022.

Bear with me for a second as I recount a Bible story from the Old Testament. Yes, this is happening. If it helps you to infuse a religious meaning into this tale, feel free, but the parable itself has been eye-opening to me through this time of transition, with or without spirituality attached.

In the story of Exodus, the Egyptians free the Israelites, but it’s not easy going from there. Fast forward, and Joshua prepares to lead the Jewish people to the Promised Land. However, they wander in the wilderness for forty years before crossing the Jordan River into Canaan, the land of milk and honey. 

When I look back on my choice to pursue a classical singing career, I cringe at the number of wrong turns I took along the way. Every grad school visit, new teacher, audition I wasn’t ready for, and day job I took felt like stepping closer to the banks of my proverbial Jordan River when in reality, I was wandering in circles in the desert. That’s a brutal truth to face. I feel like I’ve been meandering in a wilderness of my own design for nearly ten years.

Milestones are meaningful to me, so it’s no surprise I’m putting so much pressure on my thirtieth birthday. A recurring thought in my mind has been the lamentation that I have nothing to show for myself. This mindset is wrapped up in what I do. I can’t help but feel that it’s inevitable I will cross a river into my own promised land soon. I’ve been wandering for so long, and it didn’t feel aimless before, but it does now. The question from a few weeks ago of what comes next continues to loom over me– I still don’t know. I’ve experienced my fair share of uncertainty throughout my twenties. I do feel sure, however, that I’m ready to stop meandering. A shift in perspective is a dip of one toe into the river’s banks.

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It’s challenging for us not to define ourselves by our successes and failures in work and our personal lives. Every time I try and identify myself with traits I have cultivated rather than my accomplishments, that lets me down as well– I’m not disciplined, funny, extroverted, or creative all the time. I constantly fall short of my expectations. Sometimes, I am a lump of coal.

I hate to get hippy-dippy, but I’ve settled on not defining myself. Assigning specific traits or identifiers to ourselves results in self-limiting beliefs. We don’t have to do anything special to be worthwhile humans; we just have to be. When we allow ourselves to simply be, our paths are more sure, free of judgment, and straight ahead– the wandering in the desert ends. The way forward is the right choice, and if I ever free myself from my bruised ego, I believe that road will become apparent.

I am Victoria, and I am not a singer. I am a person who sings. 

‘Tis the Season

On Friday morning, instead of rising blissfully full of turkey and mashed potatoes, I woke up with the telltale signs of an impending cold. I went on the attack. Canceled plans? Check. Extra hydration and rest? Oh yeah. Echinacea, Vitamin C, Zinc, and Zicam? Absolutely. Raw garlic? Yikes, but let’s do this.

I hope you had a better Thanksgiving than my dog.

Unfortunately, despite my best efforts, the cold has changed its permanent mailing address to my nose and throat. I know exactly how I acquired this unwanted tenant–teaching is opening oneself up to a petri dish of possibility every day. A student waltzed into my studio last Monday, and when I asked my standard, “how are you today?” she replied, “I’m good; my throat hurts really bad, though!”

Did we learn nothing from the pandemic?

Guilt rushes through my whole body. I drank wine on Thanksgiving, and alcohol torches the immune system. I didn’t stand a chance. The classic shame reel plays in my brain: “This is my fault. I bet responsible singers didn’t drink on Thanksgiving.” 

Nobody likes being sick, but singers can’t get sick. A cold, allergies, or flu could mean ostensibly setting fire to hundreds of dollars. Unfortunately, I couldn’t nip this cold completely in the bud on Friday, so here I am, four days later, hacking away and feeling my vocal range dwindle by the hour. It’s like having the polyp again, except snot rolls down my face as I type. Too graphic? Oh well, bodies are gross. You’ll be ok.

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Overzealous voice teachers love to tell their students what they “need” to do to care for their vocal health. Drink plenty of water. Avoid alcohol and caffeine. Don’t smoke. Eat well and exercise daily. Sleep with a humidifier. Get adequate rest. Avoid loud environments that require a raised voice. Don’t scream or yell. Be perfect and do not have fun, ever. You will get sick and lose your voice. It’s no wonder my first reaction to getting a cold (a mild illness that we all know is notoriously difficult to avoid) is that it’s my fault. Hey, brain– I’m just a human who was out in the world with other humans, and this caused me to catch a minor cold. Stop being so mean. I can hear every voice teacher I’ve ever had lecturing me in my head as I tell my other inner voice to shut up.

For example, this is the kind of literature that keeps singers up at night:

From “The Functional Unity of the Singing Voice” by Barbara Doscher.

Of course, I read this now and think, “how did I not realize that a spiral of vocal misuse and a general laissez-faire attitude toward my vocal health was going to hurl me toward vocal injury?” My answer to that question is in a few of my past posts: denial. I also think scaring students into believing a single glottal attack gone wrong or yelling at a party will result in permanent vocal damage. Haven’t you ever heard a baby cry? Their vocal cords are fine.

At worst, this minor cold might cause me to cancel auditions and sing less well at a gig this weekend. That is truly the worst outcome, but many of us genuinely lose it when we’re ill because we risk losing income and opportunities. I know professionals who quit singing because the sheer pressure of remaining in pristine vocal health at all times is too emotionally and mentally taxing.

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Despite my Nyquil-induced haze and copious napping over the long weekend, I still sat at my tablet to write. I may be forced into a polyp era of vocal rest until this cold passes, but writing has yet to betray me. My vocal folds and nasal passages are an absolute mess, but my mind and fingers still work. Singing is so fickle; writing is not. As long as I’m conscious and inspired, I can put words on paper. It’s comforting to know I’m not rendered completely useless by a sniffle.

I feel myself shifting away from singing just a little. I’m not sure if it’s permanent, but I need to feel like I’m working toward something meaningful, and opera just isn’t there for me right now. I’m not sure if it was ever really there. The familiar feeling of imposter syndrome sets in as I browse articles on how to start freelance writing– who am I to write about anything? What do I even know? 

The quest for a purposeful life haunts me as my thirtieth birthday looms closer by the day. I wanted to be a full-time operatic performer. Who am I kidding? I still want that. I pursued that dream, albeit with many mistakes that likely prevented the desired outcome, at the expense of everything else throughout my twenties, and I can’t shake the thought that I have nothing to show for myself. 

The catchphrase, “life is short,” is meant to inspire us to take risks and enjoy ourselves because time on this earth is fleeting and precious. I agree; don’t get me wrong. However, if you’ve spent enough time around me, you probably heard me posit, “life is long.” This privileged saying relies on my fortune of living in a relatively peaceful country with adequate healthcare and the hopeful absence of early-onset illnesses and accidents, but if all goes well, life is long. I have time. You have time. Life may be short, but if we’re lucky, it’s not that short. The ability to pursue a meaningful existence doesn’t conclude at thirty years old. Admittedly, it gets a little more challenging to pursue my particular goal, which I already feel. Companies that heard me in years past when I was a worse singer don’t grant me auditions anymore because of my age. I believe Taylor Swift recently called herself a “geriatric popstar.” She’s 32 years old.

I’ve decided that my thirties will be about diversifying my skills. I crave the operatic career; I really do. That’s not going to disappear. When I look past the desire for a life in music specifically, I feel an impetus to do something interesting, something most people wouldn’t be able to do. I want to enjoy all of what life has to offer and achieve something great. Maybe it’s a bit Pollyanna-ish, but I believe we’re all capable of something great; we just have to dig deep inside ourselves to discover what we can offer.

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On Saturday night, I popped a couple of Nyquil, made myself a cup of Good Earth tea, and settled on the couch to watch the 2019 biographical comedy film Dolemite Is My Name. Eddie Murphy stars as Rudy Ray Moore, an aspiring singer who works multiple dead-end jobs to support his equally dead-end musical career. One day, inspired by the stories of a homeless man who visits the record store where he works, he begins a stand-up career that leads to a string of comedy films in the 1970s. He is known as the godfather of rap.

Rudy Ray Moore felt like a failure. His attempts to forge a musical career led only to closed doors, and he was stuck. Due to his creative mind, work ethic, and a stroke of luck, Rudy eventually made his mark in the music industry. He didn’t give up; he merely diversified his skill set and shifted his perspective. I admire that. 

We may not have learned to stay home when we’re sick from a two-year global pandemic, but I think we learned how to modify plans when necessary. I didn’t believe I would ever live in Minnesota again, and here I am, happily typing away in the suburbs. I wouldn’t be writing at all if I hadn’t been open to exploring options outside of a strict performing career. Openness is the most important quality I’ve cultivated over the past couple of years. I’d like to take a page out of Rudy Ray Moore’s playbook– I’m open to exploring skills outside of singing. 

Fa la la la laaaaa la la la LAAA.

At this exact moment, however, I’m most open to another cup of tea and a dose of DayQuil. The snow is falling beautifully outside, the lights of my garland flash on the fireplace mantle, and I need another Kleenex, or I’ll scream. ‘Tis the season, indeed. Eat your raw garlic, and take care. You’re still a worthy human being, even when you’re sneezing on yourself.

Happy Holidays.

Singer Purgatory

On Sunday, I went to a beautiful shower for a friend whose baby is due in January. She decorated her home in sage greens and woodsy browns, the room full of laughter as we played silly games and sipped pretty drinks. All the women in attendance exuded excitement and love as she opened gifts and posed for pictures. It was a celebratory afternoon. Additionally, it was my first major social event since receiving my vocal polyp diagnosis, and I knew most of the women at this shower. After fielding questions from kind friends, family, and acquaintances regarding my injury and recovery, I realized that I was right back in my least favorite part about being a freelance singer. It’s a single question.

“What comes next?”

Pre-singer purgatory in Paris, January 2020: singing the title role in the modern-day premiere of a lost Classical opera written for Marie Antoinette. Those were the days, am I right?

Last month, I had a focus—a tangible goal. Don’t sing outside church choir for a month, don’t demonstrate while teaching, and reduce social use. I couldn’t practice, take lessons, audition, or sing gigs because I was in recovery. Now, I’m in a weird purgatory space—a waiting period. The polyp is gone, but I still “need to watch it,” as my mom might say. I tend to succeed with strict rules, but things are now muddy again. It’s messy, and it’s stressing me out. Am I going to have a mimosa at this baby shower? Is it okay to have two? Is it ok to stay for three hours, or do I leave sooner? Do I sing the descant at church? How much of my fifteen minutes of vocalizing per day should I dedicate to repertoire if I take a couple of auditions in the next month? 

As I ease into the next stage of my recovery, I feel like a helicopter parent to myself. I’m over-protective and constantly panicky. As I began warming into my upper range again, I noticed that my voice hadn’t felt this solid in a long time, maybe even a few years. I’m not sure how to react to this. I feel affirmed in my choices over the past month but ashamed that I couldn’t acknowledge or even recognize my vocal decline. Most of all, I’m terrified that if I talk or sing too much, I’ll ruin my voice again, and it’ll be all my fault. I don’t want this feeling of ease to go away, but I also can’t be on high alert for the rest of my singing life. I’m in a state of limbo.

I used to tell my old teacher I was in “singer purgatory” between my graduate degree and professional viability. In retrospect, the past two years prepared me for this current purgatorial space. Throughout the pandemic, we worked on fixing the glaring technical issues I had never solved and took out the distraction of auditioning and performing while strictly pursuing vocal excellence. Unfortunately, this in-between space tanked my artistry, creativity, and confidence. When I freed myself from this mindset, I realized I had beaten my voice down for too long in the pursuit of perfection. Lack of patience is what got me into this mess.

A brief purgatorial relief, a reminder of the joy of performing. World premiere of Harmony, Seagle Festival, New York, 2021.

I turn thirty in a little over a month. I love birthdays, but I’m a little sad about this one. I told myself that if I didn’t “make it” in the opera business by the time I was thirty, I’d quit and start over doing something else. However, I didn’t intend for two years of pandemic and months of vocal distress to upend my life so profoundly, and suddenly, here I am, staring thirty years old in the face with nothing to show for myself. Not only have I not “made it” in a career with incredible odds stacked against those pursuing it, but I am so far away from my Metropolitan Opera dreams (for now! I’m far away, for now, my optimistic mind pipes in).

It’s hard not to feel like I’m closing my 20s without reaching any of my goals. I’m disappointed and embarrassed. A sane person would know that now is the time to move on, but I can’t go out this way. In my last post, I expressed excitement for what comes next. But I’m also scared. I wasted my twenties; who’s to say I won’t waste my thirties too? Will I find myself at forty, without a fulfilling performing career, unmarried and childless, lamenting all my mistakes?

As I read my writing, I edit it in my head. “People are going to think I’m so negative,” I lament. I’m trying to be honest about how this feels. I’ve spent a long time not being honest with myself and others, and it feels terrific to be truthful. However, I think of an old friend who once told me I have difficulty celebrating my successes and spend too much time stewing on my failures. I reflect on his observation often. My wins aren’t big enough achievements for my brain, and my losses are insurmountable. 

My old friend would advocate for a shift in mindset. I celebrate this fantastic win: I banished a polyp from my folds in a month and wasn’t even on complete vocal rest! I remind myself that I am still in recovery. It is futile to rush this process–I will compromise my progress and waste more time. The voice lessons, coaching, auditions, and gigs can wait. It’s also emotionally draining to regret my past choices and worry about what is to come. We all can genuinely only take things one step at a time. The anxiety of living looms too large otherwise.

So, I guess the answer to the question I got asked in some capacity over and over on Sunday is, “I don’t know.” I don’t know what comes next. So many of my friends seem to know by now. Their careers are stable; they’re buying houses and having children. I don’t covet a traditional path, but I envy the certainty of knowing where life is going. When I sat in my undergraduate voice teacher’s studio ten years ago, crying because I wanted to change my major from vocal education to vocal performance but was scared I couldn’t do it, I chose this. I chose the “I don’t know,” I chose uncertainty, rejection, and instability. I chose it ten years ago. 

The fact is, I really like my life right now. I’m physically and emotionally close to my family and friends and cherish the life I’m building with my boyfriend, who I’ve been with for nearly two and a half years. I love my home and the people I spend time with. I enjoy my students, my puppy, and my flexible schedule. However, a piece of the pie is still missing: the performing career. I can’t help but think that if I die without exhausting every viable avenue to a classical singing career, even in a less traditional capacity than I had previously imagined, that would be my life’s biggest regret. I allow myself to be happy in my comfort but know that my most prominent desire currently lies unfulfilled. For that reason, I look forward to jumping back into the world of opera when I am fully healed. I just like it too dang much.

I can’t audition for agents, sing at competitions, plan an audition tour to Europe, schedule recitals, or audition for gigs in my community. That’s okay. Those opportunities will still be there in a few months. It is a season of gratitude, and I can be thankful for the fantastic people in my life and the privilege of healing. The in-between space isn’t the worst place to be. After all, I can sing again, and it feels great.

Approaching Thirty

How can I navigate self-doubt and disappointment as I close out my twenties?

On Sunday, I went to a beautiful shower for a friend whose baby is due in January. She decorated her home in sage greens and woodsy browns, the room full of laughter as we played silly games and sipped pretty drinks. All the women in attendance exuded excitement and love as she opened gifts and posed for pictures. It was a celebratory afternoon. Additionally, it was my first major social event since receiving my vocal polyp diagnosis, and I knew most of the women at this shower. After fielding questions from kind friends, family, and acquaintances regarding my injury and recovery, I realized that I was right back in my least favorite part about being a freelance singer. It’s a single question.

“What comes next?”

Pre-singer purgatory in Paris, January 2020: singing the title role in the modern-day premiere of a lost Classical opera written for Marie Antoinette. Those were the days, am I right?

Last month, I had a focus—a tangible goal. Don’t sing outside church choir for a month, don’t demonstrate while teaching, and reduce social use. I couldn’t practice, take lessons, audition, or sing gigs because I was in recovery. Now, I’m in a weird purgatory space—a waiting period. The polyp is gone, but I still “need to watch it,” as my mom might say. I tend to succeed with strict rules, but things are now muddy again. It’s messy, and it’s stressing me out. Am I going to have a mimosa at this baby shower? Is it okay to have two? Is it ok to stay for three hours, or do I leave sooner? Do I sing the descant at church? How much of my fifteen minutes of vocalizing per day should I dedicate to repertoire if I take a couple of auditions in the next month? 

As I ease into the next stage of my recovery, I feel like a helicopter parent to myself. I’m over-protective and constantly panicky. As I began warming into my upper range again, I noticed that my voice hadn’t felt this solid in a long time, maybe even a few years. I’m not sure how to react to this. I feel affirmed in my choices over the past month but ashamed that I couldn’t acknowledge or even recognize my vocal decline. Most of all, I’m terrified that if I talk or sing too much, I’ll ruin my voice again, and it’ll be all my fault. I don’t want this feeling of ease to go away, but I also can’t be on high alert for the rest of my singing life. I’m in a state of limbo.

I used to tell my old teacher I was in “singer purgatory” between my graduate degree and professional viability. In retrospect, the past two years prepared me for this current purgatorial space. Throughout the pandemic, we worked on fixing the glaring technical issues I had never solved and took out the distraction of auditioning and performing while strictly pursuing vocal excellence. Unfortunately, this in-between space tanked my artistry, creativity, and confidence. When I freed myself from this mindset, I realized I had beaten my voice down for too long in the pursuit of perfection. Lack of patience is what got me into this mess.

A brief purgatorial relief, a reminder of the joy of performing. World premiere of Harmony, Seagle Festival, New York, 2021.

I turn thirty in a little over a month. I love birthdays, but I’m a little sad about this one. I told myself that if I didn’t “make it” in the opera business by the time I was thirty, I’d quit and start over doing something else. However, I didn’t intend for two years of pandemic and months of vocal distress to upend my life so profoundly, and suddenly, here I am, staring thirty years old in the face with nothing to show for myself. Not only have I not “made it” in a career with incredible odds stacked against those pursuing it, but I am so far away from my Metropolitan Opera dreams (for now! I’m far away, for now, my optimistic mind pipes in).

It’s hard not to feel like I’m closing my 20s without reaching any of my goals. I’m disappointed and embarrassed. A sane person would know that now is the time to move on, but I can’t go out this way. In my last post, I expressed excitement for what comes next. But I’m also scared. I wasted my twenties; who’s to say I won’t waste my thirties too? Will I find myself at forty, without a fulfilling performing career, unmarried and childless, lamenting all my mistakes?

As I read my writing, I edit it in my head. “People are going to think I’m so negative,” I lament. I’m trying to be honest about how this feels. I’ve spent a long time not being honest with myself and others, and it feels terrific to be truthful. However, I think of an old friend who once told me I have difficulty celebrating my successes and spend too much time stewing on my failures. I reflect on his observation often. My wins aren’t big enough achievements for my brain, and my losses are insurmountable. 

My old friend would advocate for a shift in mindset. I celebrate this fantastic win: I banished a polyp from my folds in a month and wasn’t even on complete vocal rest! I remind myself that I am still in recovery. It is futile to rush this process–I will compromise my progress and waste more time. The voice lessons, coaching, auditions, and gigs can wait. It’s also emotionally draining to regret my past choices and worry about what is to come. We all can genuinely only take things one step at a time. The anxiety of living looms too large otherwise.

So, I guess the answer to the question I got asked in some capacity over and over on Sunday is, “I don’t know.” I don’t know what comes next. So many of my friends seem to know by now. Their careers are stable; they’re buying houses and having children. I don’t covet a traditional path, but I envy the certainty of knowing where life is going. When I sat in my undergraduate voice teacher’s studio ten years ago, crying because I wanted to change my major from vocal education to vocal performance but was scared I couldn’t do it, I chose this. I chose the “I don’t know,” I chose uncertainty, rejection, and instability. I chose it ten years ago. 

The fact is, I really like my life right now. I’m physically and emotionally close to my family and friends and cherish the life I’m building with my boyfriend, who I’ve been with for nearly two and a half years. I love my home and the people I spend time with. I enjoy my students, my puppy, and my flexible schedule. However, a piece of the pie is still missing: the performing career. I can’t help but think that if I die without exhausting every viable avenue to a classical singing career, even in a less traditional capacity than I had previously imagined, that would be my life’s biggest regret. I allow myself to be happy in my comfort but know that my most prominent desire currently lies unfulfilled. For that reason, I look forward to jumping back into the world of opera when I am fully healed. I just like it too dang much.

I can’t audition for agents, sing at competitions, plan an audition tour to Europe, schedule recitals, or audition for gigs in my community. That’s okay. Those opportunities will still be there in a few months. It is a season of gratitude, and I can be thankful for the fantastic people in my life and the privilege of healing. The in-between space isn’t the worst place to be. After all, I can sing again, and it feels great.

My Little Polyp: Pt. 2

Click here to read part one of “My Little Polyp”.

A moment of silence for my vocal polyp, for she is dead. Rest in peace, polyp. 

It’s Sunday night, two days before my follow-up appointment. Interestingly, I keep telling my friends that I’m anxious and nervous, but after I check in with my body and mind, I find that I am not. I’m not worried. I think I should be uneasy– maybe I’m just used to feeling nervous in situations that warrant some anxiety. Fascinating.

My voice feels so much better than it did a month ago. Even though I’m not singing high, I can tell that if I were to do that nauseating hum or lip trill test that neurotic singers do, I would be able to vocalize through my full range without pushing or straining. The years spent perceiving my voice have allowed me to notice the smallest of changes; this is why the level of denial that my vocal cords were in any way usual or functional for the past few months was a perfect trick of my brain indeed.

The best way to track improvement in the vocal folds (aside from getting scoped, like I did yesterday) is the range and quality of the voice, as well as the perceived effort of speaking and singing. There are no nerve endings on the vocal folds, so there can be no feeling of pain or discomfort directly from the vocal cords themselves. So, if you’ve ever heard me complain, “my voice hurts,” I mean, “the extrinsic muscles surrounding my larynx are overworked from attempting to produce more sound because my vocal cords aren’t able to adduct properly.” I think I’m still going to say, “my voice hurts,” because I would still like to have friends.

The main question I am asked daily by anyone who knows about my vocal injury is, “how is your voice doing?” It is tough to answer because I was shocked that my pre-nodular edema had developed into a polyp in the first place. However, in retrospect, I should not have been surprised. I was thoroughly in denial. Whether or not it was uncomfortable to speak or produce high notes was a daily gamble. This month, I made a conscious effort to be honest about my vocal use and perceived improvement, which paid off in a significant way. 

November 2022, awaiting my laryngologist, looking supremely thrilled.

Appointment Day

The month of relative rest is over, and it’s the day of my appointment. I wake up and drink my coffee as I edit another lengthy application for a scholarship that would take me to Germany. A month ago, my brain might have bullied me into giving up because it’s not like I will ever sing professionally again. My mind doesn’t believe that anymore, at least not today. The caffeine flows through my body, and my fingers plunk away at the keys. I am still not nervous. I feel ready. The thought of a bad outcome does not even cross my mind. 

There are really only three things that I gave up this month– singing operatically, extended socialization, and alcohol. The singing is a big one, obviously. However, making temporary sacrifices is worth the feeling of ease I am now beginning to gain back. Singing hasn’t felt easy in nearly a year. My keys turn the ignition, I press my foot to the gas pedal of the car, and I excitedly zip to the University of Minnesota. I am ready to see a much smaller polyp. Still no nerves.

Sliding a Camera Down My Nose

Getting scoped is an interesting experience, but my little vocal nerd self loves it. I’m practically giddy. The laryngologist strolls in, profusely apologizing for being thirty minutes late; I laugh and accept his apology. Stunned, he exclaims, “you actually don’t sound bad!” Jokingly, I respond, “just the feedback every professional singer wants to hear! Can I put your review on my website?” He is unsure if I am serious. I am not. I think my joke is hilarious. We move on.

I sit back in the chair, and my laryngologist sprays this nasty numbing solution in both nostrils. After a few seconds of tongue-tingling bitterness, the doctor slides a long, slithering device with a camera attached down my nose. It’s not that bad, I swear! His hand perfectly blocks my view of the screen on the wall, but he spoils the results anyway. Before I even make a sound, he exclaims, “wow! No polyp!” I immediately emit a “woo!” and see my pretty little cords come together with little effort. An “ee” vowel provides the best look at the folds, so I “eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee” on various pitches (no vibrato allowed!), clear my throat, and do fun little slides through my range. Do you want to see my vocal folds? I feel like a proud parent. Look at my vocal folds. Look at them do things. They’re better than your folds!!!!

Can you tell I’m just a fabulous singer??? I call this piece “The Flat Foghorn.”

My laryngologist commends me for my hard work and releases me to my SLP. The micro-hemorrhaging is still healing, and a minimal amount of pre-nodular edema is present, but it’s significantly less than my initial appointment. My voice is the healthiest it has been all year, and I don’t want to ruin my progress.

Caution versus Paranoia

Singers tend to treat their vocal cords like precious little princesses up in a tower, and any cough or sneeze will cause them to hemorrhage. I’m not trying to scare singers, they’ve already frightened themselves enough, and spooky season is over, anyway. If I had spent more time resting and healing and less time trying to prove my old voice teacher wrong, I could have avoided all of this. I can and will acknowledge that a highly elevated level of vocal self-care is necessary to pursue a serious career in singing. Coming out of the pandemic, I had become lax in my vocal health. Some people have cords of steel and can beat their cords to a pulp and sing just fine the next day. Most of these people are men, and they would still sing better if they treated their vocal folds with some respect. After this ordeal, I have proof that I do not have vocal cords of steel– my blood vessels live closer to the surface, which makes my vocal folds more fragile. Lucky me.

My vocal folds, 11/1/22. If you look closely, those little red dots are microhemorrhages. The shiny white stuff is just mucus and spit. Super cute 🙂

It’s not business as usual yet. I’m a little afraid of singing now, to be honest. I’ve become one of those irritating singers, except instead of a cough, I’m terrified that one high note will send me into an irreversible tailspin. I am being ridiculous, but I do have to take it slow. Fifteen minutes per day of vocalizing, here I come. After this month, I’m full of ideas. Screw auditioning for the same twenty young artist programs and experiencing rejection every time; I have recitals, concerts, and project proposals swimming around in my mind. I am so hopeful for what comes next.

Update: As of December 2022, I am still vocal polyp-free and avoided surgical intervention.

Frauenbild Friday: Frauenliebe Pt. 2

Ol’ Rob and Clara having a great time at the piano. Image courtesy of pianostreet.com.

Alright, here we go. You’ve been on a couple of dates, texted back and forth about your music tastes, consumed too many glasses of wine together–and this new person is the BEST! They’re perfect for you, and you can’t get enough of every part of them. Unfortunately, you haven’t had that exclusivity chat yet, and you think, “there’s no way this person will settle for a loser like me.” Today, we continue our journey of reimagining Robert Schumann’s Frauenliebe und –leben with the second song in the cycle, “Er, der Herrlichste von allen,” which translates as “he, the most wonderful of all.”

When I auditioned for graduate schools, the typical university required recordings of songs in English, Italian, German, and French, in addition to an aria in any language. Since I was preparing this entire song cycle for my senior recital, the obvious choice was to choose one of the songs from Frauenliebe und –leben as my German piece. I picked this one.

Mere months after being rejected at my dream graduate school. Obviously I recovered.

I chose this song at the time because my hand-boiling, exhale card-holding pianist suggested it, and I unquestioningly followed everything he said. I remember deciding to start with this song for my audition at Rice University instead of one of Cherubino’s arias from Le nozze di Figaro. (My transition from fake mezzo-soprano to shoddy soprano is a discussion for another time, but go ahead and put a pin in that.) I began the piece, and all I could think about was how bad I sounded, how much better everybody else was than me, and how I didn’t deserve to be there. I couldn’t wait for it to be over. Apparently, the panel agreed– I didn’t get in. I wish I could go back and tell Victoria to screw the singing and get the unadulterated adoration and joy of the lyrics across, and I could solidify my technique later. I’m still learning that lesson. 

What a beautifully bizarre album cover.

Revisiting this piece has set my brain on fire. It is exhilarating and heartbreaking; I love the aesthetic little pianistic turns in the vocal line and the energetic accompaniment. The short postlude neatly ties a pretty bow on the dreaminess of our Frauenbild’s devotion. Her words are a declamation of what she believes to be unrequited love. As I listened to this piece, I thought, “I can’t wait to have my voice back so I can sing this.” I didn’t fully comprehend this song a few years ago. I postulate that my insecurities, underdeveloped technique, and lack of mature artistry prevented me from interpreting these songs with the nuance and enthusiasm they deserve. I am itching to give them another go.

All that to say– this musical diary entry is more than the average love letter. Let’s take a peek at the translation.

Translation mostly by Google Translate, if I’m being honest.

Had I been paying closer attention, my insecure, young self could have channeled our narrator’s emotions into my performance. Like the Frauenbild, I didn’t feel like I was good enough– she didn’t deserve her perfect man, and I didn’t meet the standards for an academic institution. 

The idea of a man writing about a woman who didn’t feel she was enough for an allegedly perfect man doesn’t sit right with me. I have to remember when Chamisso and Schumann wrote these poems and later songs– in the 1800s, women were still considered subservient to men. God first, husband second, then children, wife last of all. A woman’s husband is closer to God than she is. Stay obedient; Eve was the one who ate the apple, and women throughout history must continue to pay. Women exist to pump out babies until they die in childbirth–can you tell I’ve been watching House of the Dragon? Thanks to the advent of education, medical advances, and birth control, women worldwide have diversified their purpose beyond serving only the interests of men. 

But boy, oh boy, these cultural norms are hard to overcome. Women color their hair, starve their bodies, paint their faces, cultivate the perfect wardrobe, remove unwanted body hair, inject Botox, and undergo plastic surgery in an effort to obtain an unattainable beauty standard. It signals that we are more beautiful and, therefore, superior to the other women around us and palatable to men. Sure, a woman can be intelligent, hardworking, funny, and brave, but men will only acknowledge those traits in a pretty package. It’s social currency. A man can look like a stubbed toe and be the most successful person in the world.

So what’s our Frauenbild turned protagonist to do? Certainly, she’s not worshipping this modern man, but she must reckon with her insecurities. I imagine this man is also grappling with his shortcomings; we just don’t get to hear that in the original poetry. We all want to be the best version of ourselves for the person we love.

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“He’s too good for me,” I sigh as I pull on mismatched socks and my tan, heeled boots. He’s so thoughtful when I can be so loud. I watch his delicate mouth as he speaks; his eyes light up–he has a fiery mind and strong optimism. I have a sharp tongue and snort when I laugh.

He speaks. I’m not listening. His eyes perfectly match his wrinkly button-down shirt–my eyes aren’t that blue; they’re more of a bluish-green. Not so striking. How are his eyes so blue? I wonder if his parents have blue eyes. I wonder if I’ll ever meet them.

I shift my focus to the cellulite on my arms, the size of my nose, the softness of my stomach. Will he be disappointed? Does he wish I was thinner, prettier, quieter? I’m still trying to ignore what makes me frown in the mirror. Body neutrality, or whatever.

Crap, he can tell I’m not listening. Nod. Smile. Laugh. No, don’t do that; he’s not funny. He’s cute when he’s trying to be funny, though.

Yeah, he’ll leave for someone hotter, more intelligent, more successful. Better. His eyes probably light up for everyone; his hand gently touching mine isn’t unique.

 Love is such a scam.

An Old Flame

I pull on my floor-length black robe and fasten a dozen buttons up to my neck. I throw the worn, white stole over my head as gracefully as possible. I tell myself I’m going to take the robe home and wash it this week. I will probably forget. I hastily grab my hymnal and get in line for the procession. My mouth tastes like stale coffee. That’s right, this isn’t a story about a former romantic partner– it’s about my church gig. 

Many classical musicians hold a church position which can be a little bizarre and off-putting to explain to the general population. People seem uncomfortable with the idea that we receive money to attend church, but so do your worship leaders and other clergy members. Some religious institutions hire musicians only for special occasions like Christmas or Easter; others have paid choir directors, organists, and section leaders in the choir. For many musicians, a steady church position is our most stable income from singing. We rehearse with the choir on Wednesday nights, wake up early on Sundays for the service, and sing as soloists at concerts and special events. Our voices are meant to enhance the choir’s sound and accelerate the process of learning music correctly.

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I exaggerated a little last week. My laryngologist and speech-language pathologist (now known as SLP; I’m tired of typing the whole thing out) told me to keep singing at my church job but not above a specific note where my polyp starts to interfere. I am still singing; my use is just severely limited. 

Allow me to give you a little vocal anatomy lesson. The vocal folds are super cool. Both vocal folds come together and vibrate to produce sound.

Normal vocal folds in action. Again, these are VOCAL FOLDS!!

 We generally speak in a lower register (except when you yell or scream), and the vocal folds don’t stretch much to produce this sound. In contrast, when we sing in what is more commonly known as our “head voice,” the folds begin to stretch.

Here, you can see a difference in vocal fold length as the singer ascends in pitch. The lower pitch is around a B3 (just below middle C), and the upper pitch is circa C#5, which is still within my safe singing range.

While my polyp can remain relatively uninvolved with light singing and speaking, it runs up against my other fold pretty aggressively when I get above a particular note. My inability to fully adduct is why the top part of my register has become unreliable. The damaged folds cannot vibrate appropriately because the pesky polyp and the resulting inflammation on the other fold get in the way. It’s also why I have no choice but to sing super aggressively when I’m singing high– I have to slam the folds together to get any phonation. This action is unsuitable for healthy folds and is not advice I would give to any of my students, so I’m not sure why I kept trying to barrel through edema. Proper adduction is key to vocal production, but this was not it. I could not get cord closure because of my inflammation, and attempting to sing through the developing injury made me much worse.

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My polyp chills out if I sing with light adduction and stop at an E5. Singers know this note is not particularly high, especially for sopranos. Still, it is consistently where my normal operatic adduction begins to fall apart. 

I take my church job for granted. It’s not opera, it’s a choir, but it’s a steady paycheck. I would notice myself feeling this way and dismiss the emotion as usual for church musicians. Not anymore. Now the only time I sing the whole week is at church. I didn’t dread church choir or anything, I’m proud of my position with the choir, but now I genuinely and wholeheartedly look forward to it. My denial got the best of me again last week; I do miss singing, and I miss it profoundly; I feel like a part of me is missing, but I want singing to feel good again. So I’m ok not singing operatically, for now. I want it to feel easy, satisfying, warm, invigorating, and incredible again. Singing in church right now doesn’t feel like that, but it’s also all I have. “Thanks for doing what you can,” my choir director says carefully after the service. Just the feedback every professional singer wants to hear.

I feel pretty embarrassed because I cannot fully do my job. It’s super kind of my director to allow me to keep my position while I recover slowly and methodically and not all choir directors would have been so accommodating. I may not be allowed to sing an aria, but I’m allowed to sing the hymns at communion, the psalm, and the anthem, save for those higher notes. I understand why singing is so important to people in worship and how it differs from listening to a sermon or reciting a prayer. People get a rush of happy chemicals in their brains when they sing. I’m not a scientist, so I’m not going to even try and explain the logistics behind this reaction, but it’s true– singing releases endorphins. I have an addiction to singing, so reading through a hymn with a congregation usually doesn’t give me the dosage I require. After even a couple of weeks in withdrawal, however, the connectedness of singing in tandem with an entire room full of people is more satisfying than I ever knew it could be. I feel supported and less critical of my sound. That warm, satisfying feeling that rushes over me when I sing fully is still burning deep within me, even though the flame is tiny and barely palpable. 

A blurry note from a kind director who cast me in my first real role in 2014. I doubt he knows how often these encouraging words kept me from quitting singing.

Every time I say I’m going to quit singing for good, I notice the little fire burning inside me has not gone out. I can’t do it; I can’t stop. The bonfire inside me burns bright when I step onstage for a role, perform a concert, or sing a successful audition. I am a great singer! I am doing it!! But a lot of the time, it’s an enormous effort to keep that flame burning. I’m always throwing logs on my inner fire. But even when it rains, and I think that this is it, there are little embers still glowing. As long as I’ve been singing, I’ve never known this old flame to go out. I’ll never take my church position for granted again. It’s currently my little boost of serotonin, my little fan to the fire, without irritating my little polyp. Through it all, my persistent flame burns bright.