Day 10: Whisper
In elementary school I sang all the time.
My mom tells me that we used to sing together every morning when she drove me to school. “Don’t you remember that?” she’s asked. “We’d sing at the top of our lungs. You loved it. It was so much fun.” Sadly I don’t.
In college I spent a year studying music instead of science. We sang all the time as part of the class. But since then I can count on one hand how many times I’ve sang.
My voice has always been a source of shame. I mumble a lot. And even though it feels normal to me, my volume is best suited for a library.
“What? I didn’t hear you.” Five words I can’t stand.
That’s always been one of my greatest fears: Expressing myself. Making it known that I have a voice.
As a kid my dad once offered to help me. He used to mumble too, he said. And he wished he’d been able to get over it sooner. What we could do was, we’d take the kayak out past the waves where no one could hear us. I’d be safe there, he said, and I could read out loud and practice projecting my voice.
Thanks dad. But no thanks. That just made it worse.
Lately when I’ve felt like journaling but not like writing, I’ll shut myself in my closet and talk into a voice recorder. Why? Even though the door to my room is closed, I’m scared to death my roommate will hear. So in the closet I go. And even there I’m nervous.
So forget singing.
But a little over a year ago, on a kick of self-improvement, I signed up for voice lessons. (I was more surprised than anyone, trust me.)
My motivation waned fast and I only went to two or three classes. But I’ll always remember the last time I went.
My teacher was sitting at the piano. She had led me through a few warm-up exercises to loosen up my tongue and jaw. And now I stood a couple steps behind her, reading the music over her shoulders.
On one level, I was ready.
But not really. Not for what it ended up feeling like when I actually let go and tried to sing.
Keep in mind we were in a big room designed for music lessons. People sang there every day. What I was doing was objectively pretty normal.
But to me it was anything but normal. I was terrified of letting my voice be heard.
So when she finally began playing and I started to sing along, I was truly taken aback.
You know that feeling after a good workout? Your whole body feels warm. Your skin tingles a little bit. Your mind is buzzing and there are waves of endorphins bathing you with good feelings.
That’s how I felt when I started singing.
I didn’t know I had it in me!
I didn’t know that I could open my mouth and have such rich, resonant waves of sound pour out. And I mean literally pour. It was as if a damn had been broken. I didn’t have to force it. I simply opened my mouth and a voice I could hardly recognize as my own flowed out.
I bumbled home half an hour later, humming to myself in the dark, a big smile on my face.
That night I learned (or was reminded of) the real reason I’m so quiet. It’s not that my vocal chords don’t work. My voice isn’t doomed to be a whisper. And being a “quiet person” isn’t who I am.
It’s fear. I’m afraid of being heard. I still don’t know quite why, but I’m afraid. The fear drags my voice into the depths like quicksand. It takes all my energy to keep it from being swallowed whole.
But my teacher made me feel safe. She helped me let go of my fear. And when I did, I felt stronger, lighter, and more full of energy than I had in years.
“What would you do if you weren’t afraid?” It’s a question motivational speakers like to ask.
Now, I’m not sure my answer would be “sing.” Singing isn’t that important to me. But having felt the power that came from letting go of fear, I think it’s a deeper question than I ever gave it credit for.
The real question is not “what would you do if you weren’t afraid?” It’s WHAT ELSE would you do if you weren’t afraid?
And honestly, to that question I’d answer “I don’t know.” But I’d add one more point: “Way more than I could possibly imagine.”