Teaching the Singer, Not Just the Singing

I listened to a podcast recently about identity, self-worth and burnout in singers, and found myself thinking about it long after it had finished. Interestingly, it wasn't because everything I heard felt particularly new to me. In fact, almost the opposite. I found myself recognising ideas and behaviours that are already very present in the way I teach, often quite instinctively, but which I hadn't necessarily had the language to articulate or perhaps even consciously considered as part of my teaching philosophy.

One concept that particularly stayed with me was identity foreclosure, the idea that an identity can become established very early and begin to define how we understand ourselves. This feels incredibly relevant to singers and performers I work with in my private studio and in a tertiary setting. From a young age, someone might be told that they're the one who can sing, the talented one, the performer in the family. They receive praise and attention for it, begin taking lessons, get cast in shows, perhaps go on to study performing seriously and eventually try to make it their profession. Somewhere along the way, singing is something I do can quietly become singing is who I am.

It made me think about what happens when singing isn't going well. What happens when you don't get the role, when someone else gets the opportunity, when your voice isn't behaving the way you want it to, or when you're surrounded by people who appear to be progressing more quickly than you are? If so much of your identity has become attached to being good at this one thing, those experiences can start to feel like something much bigger than disappointment. The question can quietly become, if I'm not good at this, then who am I?

This idea made me reflect quite deeply on some of the choices I make in my own teaching. I've always been very aware of what can happen emotionally when a student tries something and it doesn't work. Of course we'll try again, because one unsuccessful attempt doesn't tell us very much, but I generally won't keep asking someone to do the same thing in the same way over and over again when it clearly isn't getting us anywhere. I'll change something. I might find another exercise, use a different image, give them something physical to do, explain the anatomy, stop explaining the anatomy, make a ridiculous sound, get them moving, or simply ask them what they're noticing. Essentially, I'll keep looking for another way in.

I've always thought of this primarily as good teaching and problem-solving, but listening to this discussion made me recognise another reason I do it. I don't want the student to begin believing that they are failing. The exercise might not have worked, my instruction might not have landed, or together we might simply not have found the right pathway yet. None of those things means there is something wrong with the singer sitting in front of me. That distinction feels incredibly important, and perhaps I've been protecting it more consciously in my teaching than I realised.

It also led me to think about the voice we use as teachers and what happens to that voice over time. I think there is every possibility that the teacher's voice eventually becomes part of the student's own internal voice. That carries an enormous responsibility. When I'm no longer standing beside a singer, what do I want them to say to themselves when their voice cracks, when they can't make the sound they made yesterday, when they walk out of an audition knowing it wasn't their best work, or when somebody else's career seems to be taking off while theirs feels completely stuck?

I certainly don't want to remove criticism or pretend that everything is wonderful. Singers need to be able to evaluate their work. They need discernment and high standards, and they need to recognise when something isn't working, but perhaps part of our job is teaching them how to make those evaluations specific, kind and actionable, rather than allowing them to become global judgements about themselves. There is an enormous difference between recognising that that wasn't the vocal choice I wanted and deciding I'm not good enough. If the way I respond to difficulty in the teaching studio can help establish that distinction, then that feels like a very important part of my role.

The podcast also challenged me to think about praise. As teachers, it's incredibly natural to tell someone, "You're an amazing singer", and there are certainly times when I want my students to know how highly I regard what they do, but if we're also trying to help young performers separate their identity and self-worth from their ability to sing, perhaps there is value in becoming more specific about what we're actually celebrating.

We can notice when someone has made a thoughtful choice, when they've adapted because something wasn't working, when they've listened to what their voice needed that day, or even when they've rested appropriately and can now feel and hear the benefit of that decision. Those observations reinforce curiosity, awareness, adaptability and self-care, rather than simply reinforcing an identity based around being talented or successful.

This becomes even more complicated when our passion becomes our profession. Those of us fortunate enough to work in an area we love often hear some version of, "You're so lucky, you get to do what you love", and of course there is enormous privilege in that. There is also something complicated about turning the thing you love into the thing that pays you, validates you, defines you and, potentially, determines whether you feel successful. The podcast discussed the difference between obsessive passion and harmonious passion, and I found that distinction particularly useful.

I don't want to teach singers not to be ambitious. I love ambition and discipline, and I love watching somebody work incredibly hard towards something that matters deeply to them. However, I also don't want that passion to consume every other part of who they are. Perhaps one of the healthiest things we can do for developing performers is to remain interested in the parts of them that have absolutely nothing to do with performing. What else do they love? What makes them laugh? Who are their people? What do they do purely because they enjoy it, rather than because they're trying to become better at it? Who are they when nobody is applauding? I'm beginning to think these aren't peripheral questions at all. They may actually be an important part of helping someone develop into a sustainable artist.

Another part of the discussion that stayed with me was the description of burnout as a slow erosion. We often imagine burnout as the moment somebody suddenly can't continue, but perhaps that moment is simply when we finally notice what has been gradually disappearing over time: energy, confidence, joy, connection, a sense of control, a feeling of being valued, or the ability to separate work from life. This feels particularly relevant in the performing arts, where overwork can so easily become a badge of honour and where there is always another class, another audition, another rehearsal, another song to learn, another skill to develop, or another piece of advice on social media telling you what you should be doing if you're serious about your career.

It also made me reconsider how readily we talk about the need to develop "resilient" performers. Resilience absolutely matters, and navigating a career in the performing arts requires an extraordinary capacity to deal with uncertainty, self-doubt, disappointment, but I'm increasingly uncomfortable with the idea that our response should simply be to make singers tougher. Performers are entering an industry with enormous competition, limited opportunities, financial uncertainty, constant comparison and a level of rejection that would be unusual in many other professions. Perhaps our responsibility isn't simply to prepare singers to withstand those conditions, but to help them learn how to navigate them without losing themselves in the process. That means conversations about boundaries, rest, comparison, community, mentorship, identity and what success actually means to them. It also means helping them maintain a life that still feels meaningful when you’re not booking the job.

I've spent much of my teaching life fascinated by voices: how they work, why they behave as they do, how we can change them and how anatomy, acoustics, coordination, perception and imagination all interact. I don't think that fascination will ever leave me, however the longer I teach, the more convinced I become that teaching singing is never only about teaching a voice, because there is always a person attached to it. That person arrives with their history, expectations, ambitions, insecurities, habits, comparisons, disappointments and hopes, and every interaction we have with them potentially teaches them something beyond singing.

Perhaps we are teaching them how to respond when something is difficult, how to evaluate themselves, how to deal with disappointment and success, how to listen to their body, how to recognise when they need rest, how to ask for what they need and, eventually, how to speak to themselves when their teacher is no longer in the room.

The podcast has left me with a question: What kind of relationship with themselves are my students learning through the way I teach them?

Perhaps one of our greatest responsibilities as teachers isn't simply helping singers build voices that will sustain a career, but perhaps it is also helping them develop a relationship with themselves that can sustain the person having it.

Reference Podcast:
Ep.277 Identity, Self-Worth and Burnout in the Performing Arts with Claire Cannon
Singing Teachers Talk Podcast: BAST Training