Edit Desk: Finding my voice again

Whether it’s in the shower with a hairbrush as a microphone or home alone blasting music and pretending I’m on Broadway, I’m always singing. I sing while driving. I sing while doing laundry. I sing while exercising. 

I’ve always loved to sing my heart out, but I’ve also let the opinions of my peers influence my aspirations.  

In fourth grade, I auditioned for the Fairfield County Children’s Choir, an extracurricular chorus  in my community. I was accepted at my audition, which was a rare occurrence. I remember feeling exceptional, like my voice was so special that I automatically deserved a place in the choir. 

Those two-hour Wednesday night practices quickly became the highlight of my week.  I learned new singing techniques, expanded my musical palette and was awestruck by the beauty of sound. For two hours, I was transfixed by music, and I loved every second of it. 

By seventh grade, however, the worry of maintaining a social status had come into my orbit. By age 12 I wanted to be with my friends 24/7 — whether we were bothering vendors downtown, getting Starbucks or playing in the park. I started to dread Wednesday nights.  

What once felt like an escape became the root of my anxiety. I doubted anyone would want to be friends with a nerdy girl who did choir as an extracurricular activity. So instead of embracing my time singing, I concealed my whereabouts, worried about others’ potential judgements. 

I managed to keep my secret until the last concert of the year. In the middle of our second song, I spotted a “popular” girl from my grade in the audience. For the rest of the performance, I tried to hide my face and barely sang the words in order to look disinterested. I was miserable. 

It sounds dramatic now, but at the time, I was scared my life was over now that the “big secret” was out.  The next day walking into Spanish class, I braced myself for her to say something.  She never did, but I quit at the end of that year anyway. 

For years, I abandoned my passion. I no longer blasted music when I was home alone. I no longer performed my Broadway solos. The hairbrush no longer doubled as a microphone. 

Wrapped up with my friends, I didn’t really miss it or think about it. The noise of everyday life distracted me from my own silence.  

Every once in a while, I would reminisce about my time in the choir. My brain retained every lyric of the songs we sang, and I remembered the way I used to lose myself in the music. 

In those moments, I regretted quitting and especially why. It was because of my own insecurity. Even though singing brought me so much joy, I abandoned it to fit the standard of “normalcy” for my middle school friends, who were temporary in my life. 

After years of silence, I couldn’t ignore it anymore. I wasn’t the same person I had been in  middle school. After building my confidence, I decided to perform at my summer camp, the most supportive community I know.

I didn’t want to waste another moment in a short life being afraid of what others might think. With my friend on guitar, we chose to sing a cover of “Yesterday” by the Beatles, a song that had been especially meaningful to me throughout high school.

After rehearsing the song only three times, we were ready. As I walked on stage, my voice was wobbly, my hands trembled and my stage presence was incredibly mediocre. But as I eased into the song, I felt the familiar release of letting go and escaping into the music.

When the song ended, the audience gave us a standing ovation. Tears sprang to my eyes as I was finally relieved of hiding that part of myself. Afterward, I was overwhelmed by love, compliments and encouragement to keep singing, as not even my closest friends had heard me like that before. 

That experience — one I constantly wish I could relive — convinced me to use my voice this semester, even if it meant stepping outside of my comfort zone. I auditioned for the Echoes, Lehigh’s all-female a cappella group that has been nothing but supportive and incredibly welcoming. Each day, I open up and grow a little more. 

Through those years of silence, I learned that sacrificing a part of myself is never worth avoiding the opinions of others. Now, instead of hiding, I focus on what makes me happy — being my most authentic self and embracing the things I love.