The Conflict of Musical Identity

This post is a bit lengthy, but I couldn’t ask this audience to trust me without first unveiling my own humanity. That’s what these pages are for.

I made an Instagram post last week that briefly explored how my rejection from Juilliard affected me–but there is much that went unsaid. Deciding not to go to university was one of the most incendiary decisions I could have made then, second only to picking up and moving across the country to become a flight attendant (my plan B at sixteen years old).

For the record, that wasn’t the moment that music in my life became complicated. I grew up singing in church and school, quickly learning that I loved it. I received great praise, and many were clearly annoyed at how quickly it took over my personality. I started voice lessons when I was 14 and partook in that studio for two years–leaving only when it became clear that my voice teacher had been emotionally manipulating both myself and everyone else she taught, and had only hurt my esteem when it came to music at a time when I was extremely vulnerable. 

The whole encounter had shaken me so much that I resigned to quit music entirely. I couldn’t even sing my favorite music theater songs without bursting into tears. I was the most self-conscious I had ever been about my talent and my voice. Even though it had won me solos and placed well in contests, all I saw was the potential I couldn’t quite access.

This all changed when, a year later, my choir director convinced me to audition for Honors Choir, a select program from my state that accepted a hundred singers out of thousands. In retrospect, Rebecca Wade was the one musician who never gave up on me. Even when my own parents were encouraging me to pursue other majors, she knew that all I knew and loved was music. 

And, after preparing the audition piece with a different (renowned) vocal coach (Mary Matthews), I was accepted. Although this was a great accomplishment, this event was one of the hardest, most personal things I’ve ever had to partake in. I still have the recordings of the music we performed. For those unfamiliar, the one hundred students were given a pre-selected arrangement of concert music and had about one month to study it. We met for a three-day convention with a guest conductor (Andrea Ramsey–whose beautiful music changed my life). After two days of twelve-hour rehearsals, we performed on the third day. 

A whirlwind of people who loved music the way I used to surrounded me, suffocating me in the life I had essentially forsaken. I silently cried throughout rehearsal (thankfully unnoticeably), and barely made it through some of the songs before I got it together. But then I did–and that concert was the most profound thing I’ve been a part of thus far. 

This event convinced me that I couldn’t live without music, even if facing my insecurities and past experiences was extremely difficult. I remember there was one night at dinner when I just couldn’t take it anymore. It felt like my own mind was at war, and I didn’t even know which side was losing. I went outside for fresh air by the water, nearly gasping for air, and feeling more alone than ever. I managed to calm myself before the door opened behind me.

“I know I don’t know you, and I don’t know what’s going on, but if you want to talk about it, I’m here,” a gentle voice said. 

I thanked the stranger for his kindness and let him know that it wasn’t something I even knew how to talk about–so instead, we sat. And, soon after, a whole group of young students abandoned their dinner and came outside, chatting away and enjoying the water like we weren’t even there. Somehow, it felt like solidarity. Even though no one knew me and my problems were the least of their concerns, I felt heard. 

After this event, I returned to the teacher who prepared me for the audition and asked her about pursuing a career as a musician. I had grown up with Broadway music, and I easily connected with it, but as I returned to lessons with this new teacher, something else caught my attention instead: the technique associated with old opera music. I poured over hundred-year-old textbooks and compared ancient clips online, wondering why they sounded the way they did and what made the difference. 

I am a very analytical person, and it didn’t take long for me to focus my fascination on this extreme technical work. Just like that, I wanted to be an opera singer. And, to my great surprise, Mary Matthews was overjoyed at the idea. Over the course of about a year, she helped me to rebuild my own confidence in my music. Sure, I was young and underdeveloped–but she sensed something worth fighting for and nurturing there. She changed my future forever. 

Around this time I graduated high school and immediately left my family to live alone. I grew up in a very atypical household, and tensions were high just as I turned eighteen. Virtual pre-screenings (preliminary auditions) were just a few months away. I collected a list of conservatories I wished to apply to, and we got to work. In retrospect, this was probably the best of my teenage years. I finally had the independence I had always craved. I started therapy to start working through my issues with both music and my family. I rebuilt my relationship with faith, joining the local church choir and making new friends. I worked the job I had the year prior as a server at a genuine Italian restaurant, and I was singing again. 

As tensions subsided, I worked with my mother to fulfill the greatest road trip I’d ever dreamed of–back-to-back auditions in Ohio, New York, Connecticut, Pennsylvania, Massachusetts, and Greece (virtual, unfortunately for me, fortunately for our wallet). I applied to Cincinnati CM, (almost) Oberlin C, Cleveland IM, almost (Carnegie Mellon), Peabody, Juilliard, Manhattan SM, Curtis, New England Conservatory, Hartt, and the Athens Conservatoire. Of the 9 I applied to, I was accepted to 5.

I should have prepared for it–but the rejections wrecked me. Suddenly, I was fourteen again, begging for the approval of my parents and a woman who hadn’t even had a performing career. I had kept track of all of my auditions, all of my tours, and all of my trial lessons with teachers from these schools–trying to understand what it was I wanted from an education. 

But I didn’t expect how unsatisfied I felt. After my newfound obsession with classic technique, I only liked a few teachers across the board. I didn’t like the limited language requirements (as someone who plans for fluency in all romance languages, not just proper diction). Only two of the schools offered acting as part of the program. A few of them still required general education courses. And, as amazing as it would be to study in Greece, something about the conservatoire didn’t feel right to me. To top it off, most of the schools cost sixty thousand a year after scholarships and grants. Juilliard, for the record, was ninety. 

Here’s the thing about Juilliard, though. I remember the night well–returning to the apartment we were renting, hiding in the kitchen most of the night as I tried to process what it meant. I called my boyfriend at the time, bless his heart, just hoping for someone to tell me it was okay. But no one could. Yet, once I came to terms with it, the blinders were off. Because if Juilliard had accepted me, I would have gone, no questions asked. And it would have killed me.

It would have destroyed my passion for music, taken what little self-esteem I’d built, and chucked it in the fire. I couldn’t handle that kind of environment. I hated school-imposed structure ever since I left homeschooling. So, now that they made the decision for me… I was free.

So, I researched. I tried to find a solution to a problem that hadn’t been posed in a hundred years: Could I achieve the same quality of musical education without actually attending a conservatory? I talked with my parents and my mentors, all of whom said, “Well, if anyone can do it, you can.” 

I did more trial lessons, this time with freelance teachers who didn’t subscribe to a curriculum–and after meeting with Conrad Osborne, both of us were sold. He could get me started in the career I wanted and build my voice to its potential. So, after a quick trip to New York to meet him in person, I committed. And the following October I drove myself and all of my possessions to a little Airbnb in Jersey City, content to start my new life.

Of course, that isn’t all. I was nearly engaged by this time, which was a hard jump from the year prior. I had to find a new job and a new apartment. My family had barely come to terms with that decision (after many angry conversations)--and my extended family continued to reach out, convinced I was making a mistake. But I knew I wasn’t, because I had finally started to learn myself. Isn’t that what life is all about?

Faithfully yours,

𝒜𝓃𝓃ℯ𝓁𝒾ℯ𝓈ℯ 𝒮𝓉ℯℯ𝓁ℯ 𝒯𝒶𝓎𝓁ℴ𝓇

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