“The Soundtrack of a Life: Finding My True Voice”

Have you ever wondered - “How has my life shaped my voice?”

To me, voices are living diaries; each one carries its own map of childhood dreams, adolescent anxieties, adult struggles, and secret shames. We don’t just sound a certain way—our histories echo through us every time we speak.

My own journey with voice has been anything but straightforward. If you picture those classic “before and after” tales, this isn’t one of them. What I’ve come to realize is, my path wasn’t about finding a “better” singing voice, but about seeking answers, meaning, and self-understanding.

I’m sharing a little of this story not to dwell on old wounds—they’re part of my past, yet don’t define me now. But maybe, as these words unfold, you’ll glimpse yourself amongst them. Maybe something here will bring you closer to your own authentic voice.

Childhood: Where Shame Finds a Voice

The earliest sounds I remember making were met not with applause, but with laughter. Picture a classroom in the 1980s, the air thick with expectation and mischief. I stood, book in hand, my “unusual” voice ringing out so clearly amid the hush.

“Quiet, everyone—listen to him!” a teacher announced, inadvertently shining a spotlight that left me exposed.

Back then, I didn’t understand what was “wrong” with my sound, only that it drew attention and ridicule—a lot for an eight-year-old to carry. Bullying was constant; the slurs, confusing and painful, were part of some social script I never learned. I just wanted to know the rules, thinking that if I could fix whatever was broken, the hurt would stop. Alone with my shame, I retreated into silence—raising my hand less, speaking only when necessary, trying to disappear in plain sight.

It’s strange, looking back, how quickly shame can entwine itself with sound. The patterns set deep: my voice grew smaller, edged with embarrassment that would later color both my speech and my singing.

Adolescence: Alone With My Sound

The move into adolescence amplified everything. Suddenly, anxiety buzzed beneath the surface—every errand, every spoken word, a potential gamble. Why couldn’t I just sound “normal”?

Refuge appeared where I least expected—in the privacy of my bedroom, surrounded by posters and cassette tapes. Whitney Houston’s voice became my escape. Belting along, I could be loud, bold, and fearless—if only for a few minutes. In those moments, no one was judging me; the world’s noise faded and I could simply be.

Life pressed on unchanged—until young adulthood arrived. I moved out, landed a job, and eventually came out to myself and others. Suddenly, I met people who were gloriously unfiltered; they reveled in volume and candor I’d never imagined. Wondering if I could be like them, I tried projecting my voice—sometimes too loud, sometimes not at all. “Fake it till you make it,” they said, and for a while, that felt true. But underneath every shout, the old fear lingered.

Coping came in all shapes: silence, shouting, numbing habits like smoking and drinking, the very acts that roughened my voice. Still, singing persisted. Something always pulled me back, even as I questioned if I belonged.

Seeking Answers: Years of Lessons and Search for More

At twenty-five, a casual compliment nudged me toward my first singing lessons. From that moment, lessons became a steady anchor in my life—a commitment I kept for the best part of eight years. Teacher after teacher guided me through scales, breath exercises, posture and placement drills; I rarely questioned what was being asked of me. If something didn’t work, I blamed myself and simply tried harder. My voice did improve. My pitch grew more accurate, my notes climbed higher, and the mechanics of singing—at least on the surface—started to make sense.

But most of that growth came through sheer determination. I mastered difficult songs more out of grit and resilience than technical finesse. There was still a restlessness within; something vital seemed to be missing. Every new piece of guidance felt like another puzzle piece, but the picture never quite came together. I kept searching, convinced that the answer had to be out there—a secret one special teacher could finally reveal.

I invested years, energy, and much of myself into getting better, and I truly did. But behind all the effort, there was a constant, quiet longing: to feel at home in my voice, to know I wasn’t just performing mechanically but expressing something real. Despite improvements, true ease eluded me, and I remained on the lookout for what was missing.

The Pivotal Shift: A Door Opens Abroad

After nearly a decade of lessons and stubborn striving, I finally landed a coveted contract to work as a singer abroad—a milestone that felt both thrilling and daunting. It was during that time, amidst colleagues and late-night rehearsals, that a stray comment from a fellow performer would unexpectedly change everything. This colleague, in passing, mentioned their teacher’s mentor—a specialist in something called somatic voice work.

The idea felt foreign but strangely promising.

Soon after, my contract ended, and with an eight-week break before the next job in the USA, I decided to try this new approach. I booked lessons with that somatic mentor. That first session felt like entering a different world—no scales, no mechanics—just an exploration that left my voice lighter, freer, and uncannily at ease. I didn’t know what had shifted, but I knew I had to follow this thread.

Reclaiming Voice: The Journey Continues

Months passed, then years. Somatic practice began unraveling the grip of old anxieties, inviting me to watch my habits and gently explore where tension lived in my sound. Instead of just repeating techniques, I was asked to witness my patterns and offer myself patience.

The real breakthrough? Accepting that technical mastery alone will never dissolve deep-seated fears. It takes emotional safety, reflection, and kindness. What I once thought was a “faulty” voice was actually just waiting to be heard.

The Journey Now

Looking back, traditional teaching feels rigid, focused on mechanics rather than the human spirit that animates every phrase. With somatic work, my voice became mine again—a part of me, not a problem to fix. Can voice ever be separated from the person behind it? I don’t think so.

Change came in fits and starts: surprising breakthroughs followed by setbacks. Sometimes, I relished the journey more than any result. There’s still more to discover, and genuinely, I hope that never ends. The remnants of shame linger at the edge but seem lighter, almost irrelevant now.

So when someone asks what my true voice is, I’ll say: it’s evolving. Maybe authenticity is simply the story we tell through our sound, and maybe, just maybe, our voices were always authentic—we just needed to listen.

Your Turn: The Tapestry of Sound

Every voice carries threads of humiliation and hope, doubt and joy, fear and freedom. Each word, each note, writes another chapter in our journey.

Confidence and clarity are shaped by what’s come before, but never decided for good. The best we can do is let ourselves be heard, even if, for now, we’re the only ones listening.

Your story is worth sharing, and your voice—however quiet or bold—is the soundtrack still unfolding.

Next time someone asks about your voice, maybe you’ll smile and say, “It’s the soundtrack of my story, and it’s still playing.”