I auditioned on saxophone and voice for the University of North Texas when I was a senior in high school, hoping I would get in as a saxophonist. Unfortunately, I was not good enough to be admitted to either program, but the head of the vocal department, Dr. Stephen Austin, saw potential. UNT was the only school I had any interest in, so I emailed him after I received my rejection letter, asking what I could do to improve and audition again next year. He offered to get me started taking voice lessons with his wife, Dr. Kourtney Austin. After a year of lessons and technical vocal improvement, I was admitted as a vocal performance and music education major. I quickly dropped the backup education major and focused solely on performing.

Now that I had decided to pursue singing further at the University of North Texas as a way of bringing myself closer to my dad, my professor, Dr. Stephen Morscheck, was hellbent on getting me to emote. As much as I admire Dr. Morscheck, we never really agreed on my repertoire. I felt I was being put into a small box where I couldn’t explore the pieces I had always been interested in, and I couldn’t fully connect with the music. There was a lack of freedom there, and on top of that, no matter how hard he tried to help me with various acting exercises, I didn’t feel ready or comfortable enough to share. As much as I hated to admit it, I needed a therapist, not just a voice teacher. So, I started going to therapy and finally began processing my grief.

When I moved to New York City to pursue a graduate degree in opera, my mom would tell me how proud she knew my father would be and how (lovingly) jealous he would be that I was living his dream. The feeling of being in the city that so many artists yearn to thrive in was unbelievable, and I so badly wished I could share those feelings with the one person I knew would understand. I spent many early summer afternoons at the fountain in front of the Metropolitan Opera, silently crying over the fact that I would never be able to share the excitement of this dream with my dad. 

Then, I met my new voice teacher, Arthur Levy, and it was like a light switch had been flipped. He gave me the freedom to sing arias I had always wanted to sing and the freedom to make my own artistic choices. Every week, I brought in a new aria to work on, each dealing with sadness and other “negative” emotions. I poured my grief into these arias, and my singing had never been better. I was finally able to express all of the turmoil and depression I was feeling using my voice and my face without breaking down into tears. My voice flourished and people started complimenting my acting abilities (something I always assumed I was never going to be good at).

These days, after so many years of pushing my grief deep down, I finally realize that my artistry is infinitely improved when I work with my grief instead of against it. For me, that took acknowledging and processing my grief in spaces that encourage my unrestrained artistry.

Sure, voice folks might criticize me for primarily singing tragic repertoire, but it’s taken me so long to get to this point that I frankly don’t care. At least I am still singing.