For most of my life, I thought I couldn’t sing. So I didn’t.

It wasn’t always that way . As a kid, I’d perform for anyone -- my parents, their friends, my sister, my stuffed animals, whoever would sit still long enough to sit through a rousing version of “You must pay the rent! But I can’t pay the rent!” or any song from Grease. 

But that all changed at 13, when, on a Tahoe trip with my best friend Heidi’s family, a casino karaoke booth beckoned. It wasn’t called karaoke then, but the idea was the same. “Sing Like a Pro!” it promised. “Your Voice with a Real Band!” For reasons I still can’t suss out (why, WHY?), I chose Anne Murray’s You Needed Me. She was my mom’s favorite, so I knew the song, and I suppose I thought her low smoky tones would be easier to duplicate than something higher and riskier. 

I couldn’t hear myself from inside the booth, but from Heidi’s facial expression --shock? pain? sympathy? all these and more-- I could tell that she, her family, and whoever else might be roaming around Caesar’s Tahoe could hear me just fine. And that it was bad. Really bad.

I was mortified, in a way that only a 13 year-old girl humiliated in public can be.

More than 20 years passed before any other person* heard my singing voice again. I made it through high school, college, and my first marriage lip-syncing and humming. I have never been to a karaoke bar. I didn’t even sing for myself; I only sang at full volume if I had the music turned up loud enough to drown myself out. It became a joke, part of the story of Me. I let it be known that I. Could. Not. Sing. I was just one of those people. 

*(Correction: No adult person has heard me sing. I sang to both my daughters when they were babies. Once they were old enough to judge, I would joke about what a bad singer I was, and encourage them to sing instead.)

Then I met a man who made me want to sing.

Our relationship has been laced with music since our first blind date at an outdoor concert at Stern Grove in San Francisco. We shared our favorite music with each other like other couples exchange neckties, or flowers and chocolate, and got to know each other over live shows rather than fancy dinners. A lifelong musician, Kevin is happiest with guitar in hand, and though I liked him the moment we met, I was truly hooked when he picked up a guitar and sang to me.

A few weeks into dating Kevin, while cooking breakfast for my girls, I couldn’t stop myself from singing along to The Pretenders’ “Don’t Get Me Wrong” (one of the sweetest new-romance songs there ever was), which delighted my five year-old and gave me a sensation not unlike the mental equivalent of clapping my hand to my mouth in shock. 

I wanted to sing.

It took months for me to sing above a whisper to Kevin, him cocking his head ever so slightly to hear me over the music. Then came a drunken duet with Heidi (the very same best friend who witnessed my singing shame) at the tail end of our housewarming party; I convinced myself that everyone was so drunk they didn’t care how bad I was. I watched him jam with other musician friends in our home, longing to join in, but fearing that if I did, the music would stop, the guests would say their goodbyes and shuffle out. Or worse, that they’d keep playing and just wish they could stop.

At some point, he said, “You know, you CAN sing. You have a nice singing voice, actually.” That little kindness unlocked something in me; like finding out I had special powers, or a key to a secret kingdom.

I must point out that Kevin had to say this several times before it sunk in. He may in fact have said it early on in our relationship, and I just didn’t believe him. After all, EVERYONE knows that I can’t sing. But what if I can? Maybe a little? Oh, please please please can I have a voice?

 So I started to sing a little louder, daring to hear myself, noticing where I was comfortable and where I wasn't. Nobody ran from the room, nobody laughed.

I started taking voice lessons last summer. As it turns out, Kevin was right: I CAN sing. My voice is not spectacular, but it’s not bad, either. It’s not always easy; there are skills involved, and practice, and twenty years of silence means I have a lot of catching up to do. But it feels good.

Now I’m not just a visitor in the music room, wistfully looking on while others make music in my house. Now I sing.