One LinkedIn Post Shattered Everything I Believed About My Voice

Finding song in my body and soul.

Photo by Canva and Author

Well, hello, everyone!

Thank you, thank you, thank you to all. I’m verklempt to have so many new peeps here and, of course, my OG subscribers. You keep me going. I appreciate your readership, especially 🤍s, and the comments, so I know I’m not talking to myself (like my husband does 🤣).

Shout out to my Facebook friends who made the leap across the cavernous internet to my Substack. When I closed my account last week, I thought it was goodbye for many of you, but my heart is glad you decided to stick around.

Now, on to today’s newsletter.

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It all started with a LinkedIn post.

While many of us forged unexpected connections online during the pandemic, I encountered someone who would forever change my relationship with my voice.

My online pal, Chris, shared stories on LinkedIn about his time as a music director at an NYC school. I loved how his stories about teaching kids music transformed into lessons for us all.

Recently, Chris shared a tale about how his mother – whom he had always believed was "tone deaf" – learned to sing in her 80s. (You can read the post here.)

Chris described how his mother had been told to "mouth the words" in her childhood chorus, carrying that wound of "I can't sing" for decades. However, with Chris's patient guidance, she learned that pitch could be felt, not just heard. In the end, she and Chris sang French lullabies together – the same ones she had sung to him as a toddler, but this time to each other.

The story touched me deeply.

I've always loved singing. If a genie granted me three wishes, one would have to be the ability to sing on key.

Singing has been woven into my life since the grade school choir. Every kid in the sixth grade practiced liturgical songs for weeks before special masses in our parish church. The principal shortened class time (yay!) so we could practice in the choir loft with Sister Stephanie. I still remember Sister’s contorted face and wild one-handed gesticulations directing us while the other hand played the keyboard.

Somehow, we made beautiful music together.

But, like many, I judged my voice harshly. Every crack, every off-pitch note, was confirmation that I wasn't a "real" singer. My husband teased me when I sang along with the radio in the car, "What did you do with the money?"

"What money?" I’d asked.

"The money your parents gave you for the singing lessons!"

Now, in a twist that makes me smile, he's paying for my singing lessons with Chris. Thanks, honey!

“Singing is just like talking except it's louder, longer, and you move your voice up and down.”

Elf from the movie “Elf.”

I realize how perfectly my background as a yoga teacher prepares me for this journey. Chris, who studied music in India and practices yoga, approaches singing with holistic wisdom. During our Zoom lessons, we don't just work on notes – we move, breathe, and make silly sounds that make me laugh, just as the third graders he used to teach would do.

Here is one of Chris’s exercises:

Integrating movement and breath in my singing lessons feels natural, an extension of my yoga practice. I like these moments because I already know how to do those things. But more than that, the mental approach – letting go of judgment, embracing the present moment, and accepting where I am – are the same muscles I've been developing on my yoga mat for years.

Chris introduced me to the Indian solfege: "Sa re ga ma pa dha ni sa," a cousin to the familiar "Do Re Mi." When I practice scales on my harmonium, some notes create dissonance – something intentionally placed in Indian music. At first, this clash of sounds made me uncomfortable. I wanted to escape from these wrong-sounding notes right away.

But isn't that the lesson of yoga--not to avoid discomfort but to lean in and embrace it as part of the journey?

There's a saying in yoga: “The moment you want to get out of the pose, the pose truly begins." I'm discovering the same thing with singing.

Those moments when I want to retreat, like when my voice cracks, or I miss a note, are the moments of greatest possibility. Just as a yoga pose asks us to explore our body's limits, singing invites us to explore the edges of the voice, comfort, and self-expression.

At 61, I'm not just learning to sing. I'm discovering that my voice, like my body in yoga, isn't something to be judged but explored with curiosity and compassion. Every crack, every wavering note, every moment of dissonance is part of the journey – not obstacles to overcome, but experiences to embrace.

Like Peter Brady.

I fancy the idea of total acceptance but don’t always embody it. Despite my teacher’s gentle nature, I still experience moments of absolute terror. I know I'm not alone in the fears singing brings to the surface.

In yoga teacher training, I watched a fellow student move from a militant refusal to chant at all to a moment of triumph where she led us in unison in our final class:

Lokah Samastha Sukhino Bhavantu

Lokah Samastha Sukhino Bhavantu

Lokah Samastha Sukhino Bhavantu

Translation: May all beings everywhere be happy and free.

I relate to my yoga classmate’s journey a lot. I don’t know whether the Sanskrit words intimidated her or the thought of making sounds in front of 40 students frightened her more. Whatever it was, she overcame her fear through some old-fashioned courage.

Courage is fear walking.

Despite cultural expectations, singing isn’t about perfection but feeling the music and letting our authentic voice emerge in whatever form it takes.

I'm learning that growth doesn't have an expiration date, our bodies and voices hold wisdom we haven't yet discovered, and that sometimes the best teachers appear in unexpected LinkedIn posts during global pandemics.

And yes, I still sing in the car. But now, instead of hearing the imperfections, I feel the vibrations, the potential, the grace. After all, isn't that what yoga and singing are ultimately about? Finding joy in the journey, wherever it leads us.

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Christopher Landriau writes a Substack called Voice. Check out one of his very first posts here:

Why "Voice"?

If you’d like to learn more about Chris and his approach to learning to sing, his email is chrislandriau@gmail.com. Tell him Peter Brady sent you!