Why I'm taking singing lessons
Even though I'm really, really bad.
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You know that question that’s like, “if you could wake up tomorrow having one skill, what would it be?” For my whole life (well, save for the one-year period back in elementary school when my biggest dream was to become an astronaut-slash-vet-slash-ice-cream-tester), the answer has always been “singing.”
To say I love to sing is putting it mildly. In the shower, or in the car, or in the kitchen when Kurt is cooking dinner and I am “helping” by blasting Red (TV) on our Google Home, I am constantly bursting out into song. It’s a natural instinct and an automatic mood-booster. Singing brings me joy, whether I’m belting out Wicked or crooning Billie Eilish.
But there is one problem: I am not very good. My singing voice is nasally and flat, only capable of hitting maybe one out of every five notes (if I’m lucky). And while I long ago accepted the fact that I’ll never be the next Ariana Grande, I’ve always wished that I was at least a little better at singing, so that I could take pride in my voice (and not require multiple tequila shots just to do karaoke).
If you can’t tell, I am one of those people who finds it very, very hard to do something if I’m not naturally good at it. Writing articles, solving crossword puzzles, baking perfectly gooey chocolate chip banana bread? No problem! But with anything that doesn’t come as easily (which, to be clear, is most things), I tend to avoid it as much as possible so that I don’t risk embarrassment or failure. There’s a reason why I went to a college that literally only offered classes in communications, and why you’ll never see me doing Zumba; if I can’t be good at it, I’d prefer not to ever do it, thanks!
And yet. My desire to learn how to sing grew and grew and grew, until this spring, I finally decided to take the plunge. I found a music school in Raleigh that taught both kids and adults, forked over some cash, and enrolled in a four-class bundle.
Reader, I was terrified.
That first class, I basically mumbled through scales and stopped mid-note every time I attempted to sing, because I was so worried about sounding bad in front of C., my professional-musician teacher. Despite his assurances that I was “far from the worst student” he’s ever taught (lol), I was sure that C. was laughing inside at how horrible my voice was and how ridiculous I was for thinking I could improve.
But I came back. And back again. And again, and again. Why? Because although my insecurity was huge, my excitement when I hit a high note, and my pride when C. complimented my technique, were both bigger. And with every class, I gained a little more confidence, sitting up straighter (both literally and figuratively) and speaking louder. So what if I wasn’t great? I was improving, and having fun. I was singing.
Now, after five classes and counting, I barely feel nerves when I enter the room for a lesson. I’m far from perfect (and never will be), but that’s fine; I don’t need to be an amazing singer — or even a pretty good one — in order to enjoy it.
And that’s exactly the right note to end on.
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