INNER GUIDANCE
Getting into costume for a performance of Rossini’s Barber of Seville at the Seattle Opera in 2011. Photo: Henry Dombey | Clubsoda Productions
Bridging the gap between being a student and a professional in the early 2000s, my view of what it was that I could do as a singer was quite narrow. I had been very lucky to follow a path that from all outside perspectives seemed pretty straightforward: go to college; land a spot in a prestigious, year-round young artist program; find a manager; begin your career. As a young singer, I was taught that this was the best and most desired path forward to success. I came to believe that following this trajectory legitimized my work, and that legitimacy became something that I would come to prioritize as I navigated my way through the early stages of professional life. The greater my need for institutional validation became, the more my focus shifted away from my internal compass. I found myself seeking permission more often than asking myself what it was I wanted to do. Instead of listening for that deep inner voice that can reveal the road we want to travel, I was desperate to be told what I should do so that I could best fit in to the system in which I was frantically trying to move upward. My eyes and ears thirsty for positive external feedback, totally out of touch with my own internal monitor, insecurity and self-doubt made a short meal of my confidence and my enthusiasm for music.
After just one year in the Houston Grand Opera Studio, my anxiety about these things had become debilitating. A month or two after that first season, I found myself sitting in the first rehearsal for a production of Rossini’s Barber of Seville at Wolf Trap Opera, just outside of Washington, DC, where I was spending the summer. My heart racing and my mind filled with self-destructive thoughts about every note that came out of my throat, I was more nervous at that rehearsal than I had ever been in any audition or performance. Terrified I couldn’t live up to anyone’s expectations of what a good Count Almaviva should sound or look like, I white-knuckled my way through that rehearsal, doing my best to appear confident and calm. At our first break, I remember taking a moment and thinking: I love music. I want this career. But I can’t live every day of my life like this.
Getting into costume for a performance of Rossini’s Barber of Seville at the Seattle Opera in 2011. Photo: Henry Dombey | Clubsoda Productions
A day or two later, I took myself to the nearest bookstore, and picked up a copy of The Artist’s Way, which gave me some early tools to survive the rest of the summer (and even enjoy bits of it). But my anxiety and self-doubt were still so strong that when the epic brownout power failures plaguing the East Coast that summer stopped our final performance in its tracks in the middle of the Act II trio, I found myself relieved that we were done. I remember my colleague singing Rosina, the incredible soprano Sarah Coburn, was sorely disappointed we couldn’t finish the performance properly. I could not have been in a more contrasting emotional state of mind. I’ve never been so happy to take off a costume and drive away from a theater.
Once back in Houston, I took advantage of one of the many privileges membership in the Opera Studio afforded me, and began work with a therapist they were able to connect me with to learn how to cope with my performance anxiety issues. Between the therapy and the tools in The Artist’s Way books, I found ways to manage and let go of more fears and insecurities than I ever could have imagined. Over the years, I learned how to ask myself for permission to follow my heart’s artistic desires rather than seek outside approval before making a move. I’ve come to see that striving to fit into a prefabricated box molded in the shape of what has come before is not being an artist, it’s imitation devoid of imagination. I’ve discovered that the next right steps always reveal themselves if you allow them to, and it’s really just a matter of keeping the faith that there will always be new opportunity – all you have to do is keep your eyes peeled and your mind open to possibility.
While it is jarring to see how this pandemic has completely shattered just about every norm, there has been liberation in that. The reckonings that classical music and opera’s conventions have faced in the past year have really illuminated the racism, sexism, and homophobia woven into those traditions. Unpacking how much all that hate and oppression feeds into so many of the ‘shoulds’ associated with our art form has offered me a clearer lens through which to see. The dissection of all that baggage has really been one of the greatest silver linings to this moment for me. It feels like a giant weight of worry is being lifted off of my chest, and it gives me the hope that when we finally reach that longed-for day of reopening, it will be that much easier to forge ahead with the path my heart wants to explore.