I’m afraid it’s too late.

I am a professional singer. I was a professional singer. People used to pay me.

For twenty years, everything was fine. Then suddenly, one day, a hidden force grabbed me by the throat. And I became a singer who couldn’t talk about rehearsals. I couldn’t hang out with my singer friends. I couldn’t talk about concerts. All of it made me want to throw up, punch someone, or cry uncontrollably. Just writing that cracks me open again.

When I got back to my dressing room I knew I was done.

Imagine you’re having a conversation and mid-sentence the corner of your mouth is pulled all the way over to your left ear. That’s what happened to me. My left vocal cord no longer met my right one in the centre. High notes were fine. Low notes were easy. But when I tried to sing in the middle, empty pockets of air would sometimes hiss back at me, other times a note I wasn’t expecting would appear. When I sang L’s and R’s my tongue choked me. I could no longer predict the sound coming out of my mouth.

I was newly married, renovating my home, and performing on stage just enough to label myself as a “Professional Opera Singer”. I knew who I was and what I wanted to do. Or at least I thought I did. I was convinced I could fix my problem. But, at my last concert whenever I sang the conductor would tilt her head abruptly in my direction. When I got back to my dressing room I knew I was done.

My daily practice videos documented slumped shoulders, and a variety of hair cuts.

It took two years of voice specialists including one procedure where my larynx was pierced with a needle while awake. There were the three surgeries during which gel was inserted into my left vocal cord. Thankfully, I was asleep then. Finally, I invested in a formidable speech pathologist, and a kind-eyed therapist. Every second Thursday for almost four years they helped me discover what my voice was really made of.

I practiced every day. And every day I wanted to give up. I took detailed notes of what was wrong with my voice. My daily practice videos documented slumped shoulders, and a variety of hair cuts. On rare days I just stared into the camera. What was all of this for?

Then, the morning after yet another birthday, I finally woke up from my nightmare.

I realized I didn’t want my old voice back. I wanted a new one. I headed upstairs to my studio to delete, trash, and shred all evidence of a voice that took forty-five years to build. I locked eyes with my IKEA mirror and said, “Ok, you’ve got me. I surrender. Show me what’s next.”

The only thing that chokes me up now is gratitude.

Days later, I cancelled my regular speech pathology appointment and went to meet a new voice teacher instead. In another two weeks, a voice I didn’t recognize came soaring out of my body and filled my teacher’s enormous studio. I kept track of the good things that happened. My shoulders aligned. I let my hair down. I read every book and listened to every podcast on neurology, mindset, comedy, meditation, and yoga until I had built a proper home for this new voice to move into.

It sounds simple. But it was seven years and counting. I lost friends, courage, and my mother. I questioned my identity every single day. And why expose my journey? What’s so special about the evolution of a voice? Because we all have one. And it’s never too late to share it.

The only thing that chokes me up now is gratitude.