1.1.3.b Origin Stories
Origin Story 4.
The first phase of my career peaked around 2010–2014. At least, that’s how it felt looking back. I was juggling music direction for multiple theater productions—Godspell, Into the Woods, Shrek, Grease—while conducting a show choir, a youth choir, two community choirs, teaching adjunct voice at St. Michael’s College, running my own studio, and still finding time to perform as a soloist. If you’re picturing a jam-packed schedule, you’re not wrong. During those years, I would often work with 400–500 singers each week. But for all that busyness, I felt restless, and I kept discovering roadblocks with my singers that left me stumped.
When Your Shoe Decides to Retire
That winter, thanks to a slightly longer break, I decided to enroll in a voice science seminar at NYU. I’d attended professional development events before, but nothing quite so academic. Deep down, I suspected I’d be in over my head, yet I also felt proud of my accomplishments—and confident that I’d be dressed for success. Let’s just say I should have put less faith in my shoes.
On the first day, I got up before dawn, threw on my best suit, laced up a pair of Ferragamo boots—absurdly expensive but I figured they’d project confidence—and caught the short flight from Burlington to New York. The skies were gray by the time I arrived, and it was snowing hard as I emerged from the West 4th Street subway station. After a block on the slush-filled sidewalk, I realized something was off with my right shoe. But I wasn’t about to stop to check, despite needing to stagger down the street like a frat boy who’d lost a drinking game.
I made it to NYU, signed in, and found a seat in the conference hall. There, as I finally lifted my foot, I watched the sole of my fancy boot loll open like the jaw of a drowsy Saint Bernard. So much for looking successful. By the time the other attendees—a string of “Dr. This” and “Dr. That”—began filing in, I was already soaked, disheveled, and shivering. Any hopes I had of projecting professional polish pretty much died somewhere between my closet and that ice-cold conference hall.
Out of My Depth
The next realization was that everyone around me seemed impossibly dry and impossibly qualified. On my left was Dr. Matthew Hoch, about to publish A Dictionary for the Modern Singer. On my right, Dr. Filipa M.B. La, a prominent Portuguese voice scientist. They recognized each other immediately, and I was basically a human divider obstructing a conversation miles above my head. I retreated to the back corner of the hall during the first break. Maybe they’d notice my awkward walk, but that would be better than being forced to weigh in on presentations I didn’t fully grasp.
I slunk off at lunch, found a security guard merciful enough to lend me a pair of scissors, and hacked off the dangling sole of my shoe. I was thoroughly deflated. I skipped the evening cocktail party and limped back to my hotel. It was just me, the Manhattan gloom, and my demolished Ferragamo boot.
Confronting My Own Bubble
How could I have been blindsided like this? I’d worked with formidable mentors, directed successful shows, and got plenty of standing ovations. I knew I was in a bubble, but it was a nice fucking bubble and this stupid conference peeled it open just like my stupid shoe. That soggy, dejected little boy started setting up his retreat the moment he felt the sloppy sidewalk seep into his shoe. “What do closed quotients, electroglottographs, and linear predictive coding have to do with teaching singing. I work with more singers in a week than they do in a year! Fuck this, fuck them.” The psychologist Terry Reel calls that angry boy, the “adaptive child.” My wife named him Julius, so I’ll go with that.
We all have a Julius, and it’s good that we do. Like those pesky bits of our brain that make it hard to play, reactionary, rigid thinking can serve to protect us. Both cases are like Chinese finger traps, the harder you pull, the tighter they get. The answer is softness. Back in the hotel I reached out to that wounded part of me and said “you’re right, this sucks, and we’ve had a great run. But maybe it’s time for an adventure.”
Less than two years later, I found myself in the office of my academic advisor at Shenandoah University where I’d enrolled in voice pedagogy master’s program. He asked why I wanted the degree. I told him about that disastrous NYU conference and how obviously needed more knowledge. He just nodded and said, “But people have taught singing for hundreds of years without any of this. You did. We’ve accepted your students, one is right down the hall. Why do you need to learn it?”
There I was, dumbstruck once again. Nobody was forcing me to learn about formants, spectrograms, or subglottic pressure and obviously you didn’t need to know it to sing well, but I needed to hear it from an MKO. When CM told my student that belting didn’t need to hurt, she believed it. And when Dr. Meyer gave me permission not to dive into voice science, he transformed my shame into optimism. Over time, I’d begin to integrate voice science insights into my work, enhancing the strategies I wanted to keep and developing replacements for those that no longer made sense.
The Paradox of Singing and Science
All these “origin stories” share a paradox: knowledge and technique can lead us to breakthroughs, but they can also stand in our way. If we cling too tightly to a formula or bury ourselves in data, we miss those serendipitous moments of self-discovery—like barking with a dog or belting along to the Bee Gees. At the same time, having no awareness of how voice science works can box us into old habits and half-truths. My journey from soggy Ferragamos at NYU to a master’s program at Shenandoah wasn’t about chasing credentials or becoming a lab-coat professor. It was about broadening my toolkit, so I could help more singers—and help myself—tackle problems we’d never seen coming. Ultimately, each teacher, singer, or choral director has to discover their personal blend of artistry and science.
I hope my squishy trek through Manhattan and subsequent academic deep dive will spare you at least one dismal day with a destroyed shoe and a bruised ego. If you’re feeling out of your depth, take heart: you can always cut off the broken sole, skip the fancy party, and keep learning anyway. You don’t have to. But if you’re anything like me, you’ll realize you wantto—and that makes all the difference.
Lesson Summary
This story illustrates how stepping outside one’s comfort zone—and sometimes literally walking through slush in broken designer shoes—can expose the gaps in our understanding. The author’s humbling experience at an NYU conference led to a renewed curiosity for voice science, ultimately blending deeper knowledge with practical teaching methods to serve singers more effectively.
Overcoming Complacency: Even a successful teacher can discover new horizons when facing unfamiliar expertise.
Dealing with “Adaptive Child” Responses: Feelings of frustration or defensiveness can be natural; softening these reactions can open the door to growth.
Science & Art in Balance: Voice science can expand a musician’s toolkit, but rigidly clinging to data can hamper intuitive breakthroughs.
Personal Motivation: Realizing you want to learn more—rather than feeling obligated—is a powerful driver of progress.
Exercise or Activity: “Beyond the Bubble”
Identify Your Comfort Zone: Jot down any area of singing, performance, or teaching you feel you’ve “mastered.”
Find a Challenge: Seek out a lecture, workshop, or online masterclass that covers a topic outside your expertise (e.g., voice science, a new musical style).
Reflect on Reactions: Notice any discomfort or “adaptive child” thoughts (like, “I already know enough” or “This feels pointless”). Gently acknowledge them.
Push Through & Learn: Focus on just one idea or technique from the material and experiment with it in a practice session or lesson setting.
Share Your Insights: If possible, discuss the experience with a colleague or friend—did confronting the unfamiliar lead to new perspectives or teaching approaches?
