My first memory of deep embarrassment (aside from that one time I accidentally let a fart slip during circle-time in the second grade and absolutely denying it,) was ironically, singing during music class.

Just like that moment of frightful flatulence, this exercise completely caught me off guard. Also happening in the second grade, our lovely music teacher Mrs. Wolf, had us doing vocal warm ups as a group. She showed us this tennis ball that represented our heads, with a slit cut across the middle which acted as our mouths. There was another hole in the ball connected to an instrument, a kazoo maybe, and she’d blow into the kazoo and squeeze the tennis ball, to which the ball would ‘sing.’ It was hilarious and wonderful. She was teaching us about our breath, our diaphragms, and our lung capacity. Fascinated, I learned a great deal with this tennis ball and the idea of our body mechanics. (Sit-down-text-book learning was tricky for me, and I always appreciated a good hands-on demo.)

After demonstrating with the tennis ball, she had us focus on our breath while all singing Happy Birthday, which was really fun, and loud! Then, out of nowhere, the lovely Mrs. Wolf announced that we would be singing Happy Birthday INDIVIDUALLY. Like, one at a time. Like, by ourselves.

One classmate after another sang and I tried calculating how long it would take before my turn.

I can still remember the visceral terror I felt when Mrs. Wolf finally stepped in front of me and gestured for me to sing. I have no idea why I was so scared, but the feeling was rooted. The song thinly emerged from my trembling little human tennis ball head, and I got through it. The music teacher cooed encouragement, was so very pleased, and then moved on for the next student to sing. Some students were completely unphased while others, like me, were mortified.

To this day I don’t know why I was so afraid, and what I was so afraid of. (That’s not true. I have some guesses that come from my backstory, but I’ll save that for another time.)

What really gets me though is that I still feel that way, every time I sing in front people … every time I even speak in front of people.

More often than not, I go to share my handwritten music and am gripped with fear. It can be such a strong sensation that my hands curl into fists and I am physically incapable of releasing them. My throat closes, my body trembles, every fiber of my being wants to bolt. I swallow myself into myself and am consumed by an abyss of self-hatred, self-protection, self-deprecating humor that I sometimes share with the audience. It can be brutal, sometimes dissociating. Anything to remove myself from a potential unforeseen threat at the cost of being present with my voice, and with you. I know now that that is a fight or flight/trauma response, and unfortunately I cannot think my way out of it.

Not too convenient for being a singer/songwriter and performance artist. Something in/around me chose this though. Something unknown - call it Spirit, Intuition, God/dess keeps presenting me with the song to sing. Whatever the Soulful It is, She affirms that I need to keep showing up, and letting out that voice. Thin or not, the song must be sung. And I have a responsibility to trust the Source.

A bird doesn't sing because it has an answer, it sings because it has a song.

Maya Angelou

I sing because I have a song, and a deep desire to connect with others. Opening my heart and trusting my voice is my lesson. The only way to learn is to lean in, and sing. The ultimate hands-on demo.

Let us all be carried by our breath to what our hearts want us to hear, and heal the places that rationale can’t touch. Let us all have an inner Mrs. Wolf, bopping around with tennis ball heads and endearing words of encouragement, so that the Littles inside of us can be brave and sing, even when they’re scared.

Just like recovering from substance abuse, and regaining financial security, and reclaiming my sovereign voice:

Little by slow, little by slow.

(Oh, and, everybody toots.)