The NeverEnding Struggle

This Writing Is For Me Like All Of Them

Photo by Daniel Jensen on Unsplash

People like to think that because I have been studying and singing for so many years, I have everything figured out.

But the truth is, I feel like I’m just beginning to understand. One never stops having realizations, so this writing is for me. Hopefully, it will serve someone else too.

I was working with an adult student. She hates the sound of her voice, but she can’t stop singing. I like working with her because I was her at some point.

At some point in my life, I hated the sound coming out of my mouth. It hadn’t always been that way.

I was stuck in a very rigid way of singing, and I felt that even though I was very energetic in my approach, there was something more in my voice that I couldn’t access yet. I wanted more.

So I decided to rebuild my technique. I contacted a voice teacher I had been curious about, and from the first session, I knew it was a good fit.

But here’s the thing: even when we know that the way we sing or speak is holding us back from reaching our vocal potential, relearning to sing is incredibly difficult.

In my case, it means becoming aware of every attempt to make my voice sound “special.”

Since I was a child, people told me I had a beautiful voice. I just sang. But when I started taking singing lessons, something that had been natural for me turned into muscle manipulation to produce an operatic sound—a sound that was supposed to be more “special.”

Years and years of manipulating the muscles of the throat imprint a muscular sensation and a sound into the brain, a sensation in which we recognize ourselves.

So when we decide to change the way we sing, we must understand that altering our perception of our own voice means letting go of a personal construction that has developed over time.

It means letting go of the ego, accepting the voice as it is—not as we want it to be.

We must learn to love the sound that comes out of our throat.

In my case, that meant going down to the basement, where nobody could hear me, and making noises. Abandoning any attempt to “sound beautiful.” Allowing my voice to move. To be.

Listening to the sound coming from my body. Listening to the voice in my head trying to stop that madness.

Who is judging that voice?

Who decides if it is beautiful or ugly?

How good of a judge is that voice in your head?

If you listen carefully to the voices around you, you’ll realize that, in general, people aren’t thinking about whether a voice is beautiful or ugly, or whether their own voice is beautiful or ugly.

They simply hear Thomas or Juana.

They simply express themselves, and their voices reflect who they are.

Who they are includes the good and the bad, the beautiful and the ugly—the whole.

We are not black or white; we are everything.

The divisions exist only in our minds.

So your voice is not ugly.

Your voice just is.

Eventually, both voices started to calm down. As my mind grew quieter, the muscles in my body began to release, and my voice moved with more freedom.

I realized something I hadn’t seen before: all the blockages in my throat, the ones stopping me from expressing myself freely—they were mine. I was the one putting them there.

When people become aware of how the voice works and try to force a certain quality into the sound, the body protests.

By listening to the voices around me, I have learned to listen to my own voice without judgment—to let it be.

Now I know that the struggle is not to give so much importance to the one who judges my voice—who also judges what I write.

I am realizing that it is something that will never end.

That voice might be right about some things.

But if we keep listening to it, we will never allow anything to happen at all.