The story
Power and ease,
together, in the same body.
The first time I truly understood what the human voice could do, I was standing close to an opera singer mid-performance. What hit me wasn't just the sound, it was the feeling of it in my body. The resonance. The sheer power. And the ease. The way something that extraordinary could look so effortless.
That stayed with me. I went on to study opera up to masters level, and spent years training in one of the most demanding vocal traditions in the world. And somewhere along the way, I realised I didn't actually want to be an opera singer. What I had been chasing, without having the words for it yet, was that feeling. Power and ease, together, in the same body.
It took a painful detour to find it.
After my master's, I stopped singing. Not by choice. The voice just wouldn't come. Years of perfectionism, of pushing, of being the observer and judge of every sound I made, had taken their toll. I thought it might take years of therapy before I could sing again, if I ever did.
Then something unexpected happened. A voice in my head said: buy crystal bowls.
I didn't question it. The moment I started playing them, something shifted. The frequency of the bowls, combined with years of somatic and trauma work I had been quietly doing in the background, created a condition I hadn't been able to manufacture through effort alone: safety. And from that safety, the voice simply emerged. Not pushed. Not coerced. Not performed. It arrived.
Within a couple of months, I was singing in a way I never had before. Freer, fuller, more alive. And I realised something that has shaped everything I do since: the years away from singing hadn't been a detour. They had been the training.
