When I was a teenager, I had only one desire: to sing.
But it wasn’t just a whimsical, delusional desire. I had an urge to sing that consumed my entire being. Music was the only future I imagined for myself.
Mother says that as a toddler I insisted she repeat the same cassette tapes when we drove around in the car. Father was a musician, so I think some of that love for sound was inherited. Every Sunday I would lay in my childhood bedrooms and listen to the Top 40 on the radio boombox. I made sure to write the name of the few songs I loved in my journals. When I was 11 or 12, I got my first CD player and glued it to my skull. I still have the old copies of Green Day, Santana, Simple Plan, Avril Lavigne, the soundtracks to Napoleon Dynamite and The O.C. that I played and played over and over. I would secretly imagine a world where I was singing in some way.
When iPods and Limewire became available I spent hours searching up new music and downloading songs into playlists curated to my moods. At every spare moment I would blast the sounds through my headphones and find myself transported elsewhere. There was stillness every time I put the headphones in my ears, turned the volume up all the way so the rest of the world faded out, and felt the noise vibrate through my body instead of my repetitive, obsessive thoughts.
I have always had some kind of audio-tactile synesthesia—I can feel music in my skin. Different parts of my body rise and fall with the rhythm of any song I listen to. It’s similar to the chills people get when they hear a really powerful voice or sound or statement—frisson—but for me it’s constant throughout every song. Some songs are stronger than others, but I can always feel music as if it is alive within me.
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My first live show was The Backstreet Boys and Aaron Carter in 1998. I was a little overwhelmed for specific memories, but I remember the feeling of the crowd cheering and chanting and the energy vibrating throughout the night. I saw Green Day in 5th grade a few years later and I still remember when I became aware of the feeling of the sound in the stadium. I kept going to concerts any chance I could get—the live noise always made me feel better.
I went to shows every weekend when I was in high school. Most of them were alternative rock bands but I never said no to a concert, so I’ve seen a little bit of everything. I can’t accurately recall how many bands and artists I’ve seen; there were so many across every genre. Maybe one day I’ll try to make a list just to see how much I can remember. I travelled all over Florida to venues and bars and stadiums just to experience the pure relief and joy I got from hearing music live. At that age, I was convinced I would make a life surrounded by stadium sound.
I knew when I was applying to college that I wanted to study music. I also knew that I wanted to leave Florida—or maybe more so the environment that felt inescapable without a massive physical distance. I had been interested in Nashville for a while. Even though it was the center of country music, the first time I visited, I fell in love. I could perfectly picture myself sitting on one of those stools on those little barstages singing my soul.
I was accepted to music programs at colleges in Nashville and Asheville, North Carolina. The school in Asheville was more religious than I thought—mandatory Sunday Service was a hard no for me. I never got to visit the school in Nashville, but I intuitively knew that’s where I wanted to be. I would have done anything to make it happen.
And of course, it was infeasible. The whole thing was too expensive with out-of-state tuition and wouldn’t it make so much more sense to go to community college for a few years and use the in-state academic scholarships? I guess I could have just handled everything myself and found a way to get to Nashville and taken out thousands and thousands of dollars in loans. But I was young and alone and scared. I never felt like my musical dreams were supported. Instead, I was encouraged toward practicality—singing is a hobby, not a career path. That’s how I ended up majoring in English and becoming a teacher.
I felt like any time I expressed this dream to sing, I wasn’t taken seriously. I was questioned or criticized and driven further and further into shame. I still feel shame even admitting this dream out loud. The doubt I received from others impacted me deeply and resulted in an ultimate doubt within my creative capabilities.
Sometimes I wonder what differences there would be in my life if I had received encouragement. If someone had seen the passion in me and supported that instead of picking it apart. I was always easily influenced, so the more flaws others pointed out in my dreams, the more I felt they were unachievable. I tried so many different creative paths as alternatives, but it wounded me to not pursue music.
I stopped singing for a long time. I was already embarrassed about the desire itself and had convinced myself that my voice was horrible and I was too old with no knowledge and no one would want to hear me anyway. I figured there was no point in singing if I was being so judgmental that I couldn’t even enjoy it. So, I pushed away the dream. I pursued the path that I took and made some big accomplishments. I still loved music—it will always be a part of my daily life—but I was focused elsewhere.
Still, the dream refused to leave my mind. It was buried far down but called out from beyond the grave, refusing to be silenced.
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There was an unfortunately long period where I didn’t go to any concerts. Chronic illness and COVID made it difficult or impossible. I do always enjoy a livestream when I can and I’m grateful those have become more popular. But I missed and craved that feeling of the live music. I’ve been back to some shows over the last few years and, naturally, they have reawakened everything previously suppressed.
I went to one of those concerts alone a couple of weeks ago. I was supposed to have company, but the plans fell through. I questioned going because of anxiety but then I decided I had been looking forward to it and I deserved an enjoyable experience. It had been many years since I’d been to a show alone, but it was something I’d done before and could do again.
The venue was inside of a casino/mall/restaurant capitalism nightmare. I’ve only been to the Hard Rock once but this time I took note to really observe the sights sounds smells. Overstimulating but strange and endlessly fascinating. Easy to get lost in. It took a minute to find where I needed to go, but I refused to let my fears take over and wouldn’t ya know, everything worked out.
I got to the show about an hour early and sat down with a glass of wine. One of the security guards noticed me and came over to chat. I don’t know how or why, but I often get strangers who approach me and just start spilling details about their lives. Maybe I carry an energy of opening.
In the conversation, the man asks what I do. I tell him I’m a teacher. He praises my noble responsibility but nudges me to tell him about my creativity, who I am outside of the job. I tell him some of the story I’ve just told you. I tell him I always wanted to be a singer/songwriter.
“So, why aren’t you up on that stage like her?” His smile is gentle, excited, encouraging.
“I don’t think I could do that… I’d be too afraid!”
“You teach in front of how many students a day? It’s the same thing!”
“But my classes are way smaller and I’m not singing—”
“But you’re still using your voice! You’re still expressing yourself and conveying information through your personal lens. Don’t make up excuses. If you love to sing, you should be singing, stage or not. But I have a feeling if you can find the discipline, you could sell out this place. There’s only one consistency among successful artists—discipline.”
A serendipitous conversation it was.
I had the best night I’ve had in a while at the concert. I sang and danced and screamed and felt no self-consciousness about enjoying myself. There was something especially impressive to me about the solo female artist. She had a powerful presence and had the ability to carry the completely filled venue in the palm of her hand. Her impact is so felt because of her dedication to her authenticity. The sound in the stadium was indescribable, otherworldly, one of the best I’ve ever felt, the music vibrated through my bones and burned through the center of my chest.
But when the night was done and I finally got home, I cried. I cried for my lost dream of singing. I cried for not believing in myself enough to give it a real try. I cried for how I had betrayed myself by not engaging in something I love. I thought about my conversation with the security guard and I cried more.
After I was done shedding an ocean, I started to unpack what was going on. I couldn’t understand why I was so emotional when I had had such an amazing night.
It had everything to do with me—and that I had given up on myself.
I did lack discipline. I was too depressed to take anything seriously when I was younger. And I truly believed that there was no way I could do it alone, with no support. I made every excuse in the world for why I should not sing or pursue music. I found little reason to engage in anything creative beyond just a private, irregular hobby.
But I realized a few things in deconstructing this experience:
I realized that my dream of being on stage is partially a dream of validation—a dream of love and adoration and acceptance that I have never felt in my life. But I have a few good people who are close to me and who support everything I do and who objectively love me. I know that I am a valuable person. Do I really need a crowd of strangers to validate my self-worth?
Singing on stage is also a dream of impact. A reality in which the words I write and speak move through others and assist them in some way—whether that is through enjoyment or healing.
I am already doing that in my daily life—my students tell me every day that my teaching is impactful and that they love coming to class. Somehow just my presence helps people. Both in an out of the classroom, complete strangers easily open up their whole selves to me and I’ve never known if that a blessing or a curse. I have to ability to make most people feel comfortable, so my presence is certainly impactful.
Then what is it? What is it about not pursing singing that drowns me in tears?
The abandonment of myself. A neglect of my authenticity.
The ultimate realization was that I had disappointed and deserted myself. I refused to what I love because I was too concerned about the outcome and opinions. Instead of just doing it because it felt good and real, I put too much pressure on the dream and had a predetermined notion that if it was perfect success, then it wasn’t worth it. If no one believed in me, I couldn’t believe in myself either.
And I was afraid. Afraid to be myself, afraid to be rejected further, afraid to be told my voice was horrible and everything about me was horrible and confirm all of the worst fears in my mind. I guess part of that is inevitable for an artist—to display your vulnerabilities to the world and hope they don’t tear your being to shreds.
So, after this concert, I decided to be more disciplined. I now host personal vocal lessons for myself multiple times a week. Thankfully there is some great free content online that I can take advantage of. I built a playlist of songs in my range and I sing with full power to my dogs and the empty walls of my home. I let the music fill my body as the fear and shame drains away. I let myself feel comfortable just singing alone, just letting my voice go and being filly in the moment. It is therapy on my own journey back to authenticity.
And sometimes, I even think I sound pretty damn good.
I love singing because it makes me feel better. It releases the emotions that have been stored in my body for decades and transmutes them through sound waves back into the ether. I no longer have to carry that heavy weight when it is released somatically through my voice. I’ve been looking for a piano keyboard because I’ve always wanted to learn an instrument and I am reminding myself it is never too late for that. I hope one day that I can experiment to create my own songs, even if just for my own enjoyment.
I think we all have something like that—something creative that calls deeply to us and asks that we engage with its discipline. Singing feels spiritual for me, like I am connecting with something both within and without of this realm. Music is a channeling of energy, the meaning of the words embedded in the tone and vibrato of instruments of voices. I still don’t really know anything technical about music, but I know what feels good and what sounds right. And for now, that is what I’m following.
I will keep doing what feels good, just for that simple reason. The desire itself is reason enough.
Maybe one day, I’ll make it onto the stage.
