I joined the Island Singers last night. It’s a choir made up of people of all ages most of whom live on the island and love to sing. I was blown away by the friendliness and the quality of singing. The group’s familiarity with each other and the music created a beautiful tapestry of harmonies that swirled around me, sweet and rich like honey.

For me, though, it feels intimidating to walk into a group of experienced singers—most can read music—and let my voice be heard. My musical past is… checkered. Let’s just say my father’s insistence I play the accordion, coupled with my own teenage awkwardness, didn’t exactly foster a lifelong love of performing. Even years later, when a kind soul at a songwriting workshop offered me her accordion, my fingers fumbled on the keys, stiff and unfamiliar. Too much time, too much self-doubt.

That songwriting workshop in the early 2010’s, was the last time I sang in a choir of any sort. Lead by Eric Bibb, the incredible blues musician, I felt myself wanting to shrink into the corner when first I stepped into the music studio where the workshop was held. Surrounded by 7 professional musicans, there I stood, notebook and pen in hand, but no long list of professional musical accolades and definitely no instrument by my side, let alone the several most had with them.

And still, the community of musicians held strong, like a symonphony of chords making sweet music. They welcomed me in, put me at ease and even supported me in performing on stage the song I wrote during the workshop which Eric Bibb had set to music, “Fear Lives in her Belly”. Standing there, singing my own words, words about fear no less, was terrifying. And exhilarating. It was a glimpse of that raw, vulnerable place where true connection happens. .

Which brings me full circle back to singing with the choir. I love to sing. Mostly stopped in my teens and then, two years ago, sang in front of 250 people. At that event, I sang the same song I’d sung when I was 16, the one that only earned me more jeers and pokes from my brother. His words, like tiny daggers, had pierced my fragile teenage confidence, silencing my voice for years.

So here I am, years later, walking into the Island Singers, my heart pounding a familiar rhythm of fear. Will my voice hold up? Will I hit the right notes? Will they judge my rusty sight-reading? But there was something else too… a yearning to let that vulnerable part of me breathe. And it was in that vulnerability that I found my voice.

Surrounded by people passionate about singing and sharing song and entertaining audiences just for the sheer joy of it, confidence soared like a high note, drowning out the whispers of doubt. And in its melodious song, fear melted away, leaving a space for the quiet courage of vulnerability to emerge.

As a fellow choir member reminded me, “Sometimes I completely lose my place and have to just fake it ’til I find it again. Just keep singing along, and if you forget the words, just keep your lips moving and smile. No one will know the difference. It’s okay to not be perfect. We’re all here to support each other and just enjoy the music.”

No one will know.

No one will notice my nervousness if I keep smiling.

No one will realize my mind is devoid of the words if I keep moving my lips.

And my heart won’t dance for joy if I don’t sing and let my voice be heard.