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Recently, I got a call from a client I hadn’t seen in a couple of years. A lot had changed in her life since then, including that she’d recently sustained a vocal injury.
Even though Marjorie had just been given the all-clear for us to work together, it wasn’t fallout from the pre-nodules that stood out in her voice. It was a type of tension that hadn’t been there when we’d last worked together. Marjorie was anxious. She was holding her breath, her voice, and herself back.
Hesitation is the last thing you want as an athlete, vocal or otherwise. But I don’t blame her for being nervous. I get it.
Back in my college days, I was cast as a lead in one of the school’s shows. A few weeks into rehearsal, I got a cold that turned into a chest infection and—never having had an issue with my previously indestructible voice—popped antibiotics and continued to sing. I went to all of my lessons and rehearsals and even gave a recital, coughing, compensating, and clearing my throat all the way.
And then, two weeks before opening night, I woke up without a voice.
The ENT (ear, nose, and throat doctor) I went to—my first time seeing such a specialist—was a kind man who assured me that I would be fine. My vocal cords weren’t damaged, but they were terribly swollen and needed time to heal. He recommended complete vocal rest—total silence—for 14 days. If I did that, I would be as good as new.
Meaning that the next time I sang would be on opening night.
Fortunately, the show went well. After a slow and gentle warm-up, I plowed into my songs and heard my voice, strong as ever, back in action. I was ecstatic.
But once I walked off of the stage, something happened to me.
My voice was fine. But I wasn’t. I was terrified. What if opening night had been a fluke? What if finishing the show’s run and returning to my training and performing schedule would cause more swelling? What if I lost my voice again?
All kinds of doomsday scenarios filled my head, none of which had anything to do with what had caused the problem in the first place: singing on an infected throat. Even though I was entirely healthy, even though the possibility was incredibly unlikely, having lost my precious instrument once—something I had previously thought impossible—I was now terrified that it could happen again.
Logic rarely has the power to change a mind run by fear, no matter our circumstances or the kind of injury we've sustained. But there is a path back from that scary mental and physical place. Walking it requires:
Acceptance
When things go sideways, it’s easy to venture into the realm of right, wrong, fair, and unfair. But resist the temptation to judge, blame, or shame yourself, others, or life for what happened. Being frustrated, angry, and afraid are normal responses to an injury and the related fallout. But holding on to those emotions for too long hardens our hearts and breeds resentment.
Instead, accept what happened. It happened. Resistance won’t alter that reality.
Surrender
Reality gets altered when we surrender to, rather than fight, what is. Where acceptance stops our resistance, surrender allows us to go one step further and enter into the flow of healing, learning, and growing. To look anew at what may appear to be a terrible situation and sink into the nooks and crannies of possibility there.
What can we learn? What can we try? What can we imagine? How can we contribute?
Every situation holds the seed of opportunity. My two weeks of vocal rest allowed me to slow down and focus on other things, including the myriad benefits and teachings of silence. I read voraciously. I sent handwritten letters, something I hadn’t done in years.
I felt greater empathy and compassion for people struggling with illness and disability. I paid more attention. I listened. I learned. I was humbled. All lessons that have stayed with me until this day, half a lifetime later.
Gratitude
The practice of gratitude is a powerful tool in all areas of our lives. It brings awe and reverence to even the simplest and smallest of things. As well as to those who matter most to us, particularly in their temporary absence.
Allow your heart to fill with an appreciation for your precious instrument, as well as the instrument that you are. And take care of both with the same amount of attention and gratitude when they return in full.
Bravery
As wary and careful as you may be tempted to be, once you get the all-clear from your doctor, it’s imperative to fully and properly engage, physically and emotionally, in your recovery. You need to go for it. When we favor our voices, as we would a sore ankle, the apprehension and hesitation result in compensation, leading to tension and bad habits that often land us right back where we started.
Trust
Engaging fully requires trust. In ourselves, our voices, and the specialists who have far more experience with injury recovery than we do. When they say we are OK, we need to trust them.
And how do we do that? We build trust by trusting. You may be afraid of getting hurt again, but your body isn’t. It exists in the present moment, not in fear of the past. Join it there.
Perspective
I love to sing. But I am so much more than a singer. My passion doesn't define me, and it shouldn’t define you. Cultivate other interests and take care of your whole self… mind, body, and spirit. Go for a walk, practice yoga, and meditation. Pick up a sport or a hobby. Make new friends. Volunteer in your community. Help a neighbor.
Spending time on things outside of our primary passions doesn’t mean we care less about them. It means that we care more. Expanding our actual, in-the-world experiences gets us out of our anxious ruts and off of our mental gerbil wheels. Perspective and objectivity are the best antidotes to self-absorption and stress and, therefore, the best way to help support our professional ambitions and personal wellness.
For me, keeping perspective means spending time in nature. I cherish my long morning walks. Stepping outside and gazing at the sunrise—at the expanse of sky, life, and possibility before me—reminds me that I am a tiny part of a vastly larger whole. And that my problems, enormous as they may appear to me, are relatively insignificant and minor. A thought that, when considered with perspective, isn’t depressing. But, rather, liberating.
There are always bumps on the road of life. But they are obstacles, not roadblocks. Learning to navigate them with grace, patience, and tenderness toward yourself is one of the most important lessons we can learn. And the most effective way to overcome whatever challenges life throws our way.
It took some time before Marjorie was back to her brave and full vocal self. But she made it, and so can you. Just as I did all those years ago.
For more about handling and healing vocal-specific injuries, click here and read the "Discipline" section.
