The Year I Found My Voice.

A little diary entry on the process of healing.

Nodules is like the word Voldemort to a singer. ‘He who may never be named’. Just whispering it draws audible gasps. Yet in the summer of ‘23 it’s a word I became all too familiar with.

I had been putting off getting my voice checked for years. Constantly making excuses that I had a ‘breathy voice’ or I was just run down. My voice had learnt to compensate on tours. I thanked it as it always found its way back to me. It was a work horse. I knew no matter how raspy it may be it was a loyal road dog always battling through. Boomeranging back to me for showtime.

Years of touring, talking loudly in DJ booths, and just general wear and tear had caught up to me.

I was feeling pretty ambivalent about music at the time. I had thoughts of giving up but as I sat in that ENT office, on the hard plastic chair, the reality sunk in. My voice may be taken from me. No lullabies to my future children, no happy birthday songs at parties, no more conversations at loud restaurants. My whole livelihood had relied on me making sound. A cold sweat began to cover my body as the clock above became louder and the walls started to feel as though they would swallow me whole.

Dr Ron stuck a thin tube up my nose and down my throat. As I spluttered through a few ‘aaahs’ and ‘eees’ there it was on the big screen. A lesion starting to form on one of my vocal cords. The dreaded Voldemort. The next 5 minutes felt like a lifetime and as the words fell from his mouth, my world became silent. A few cut through the ringing in my ears, Adele, surgery…

He sent me on my way with a referral to The Best and his most trusted speech pathologist with promises of results. I don’t remember leaving the office or getting home. I don’t remember much of the next month at all. I was sent into a tail spin of denial. I dealt with the diagnosis how I always seemed to deal with bad news – irrational chaos. I did the opposite of everything I was supposed to do. I blamed myself and eventually cocooned under a blanket of guilt and retreated. The perfect place for my self pity and wallowing to flourish. I felt safe under there.

My voice had been my shadow for as long as I could remember. Sometimes friendly, sometimes foe.

It had been the talking point, the soft spot.

The indicator of success; the reason for failure.

The ‘awh how’s that singing thing working out? Still doing it? Good for you!’

The pride of my parents; the worry of my parents.

The untenable; the gift; the lonesome.

The little crack of light in the depths of darkness.

My peace and my pain.

The most frightening, but ultimately,

My longest relationship.

When I finally garnered up the courage, I booked in to see Therese. I don’t know what I expected from ‘Sydney’s best speech pathologist’ but she was not it. She was small in stature but her warmth enveloped the room.

She was graceful and welcoming. She had the most knowing manor, it was as though she had been expecting me. As we tiptoed through the usual small talk, she conversed like a ballet dancer, her conversation was smooth, her movements fluid. I warmed to her instantly, but I kept my armour up. I just couldn’t get my head around the slow and painful journey ahead. I was impatient, anxious and tended not to linger on activities that didn’t give me instant gratification. A flaw of mine. Jack of all, master of none. But this needed practice and patience. I had no choice but to try.

We started with blowing through a steel straw into a cup of water. Creating an underwater sound effect that would soundtrack the next 12 months. Although I’d spent half my life making weird vowel noises and siren calls to warm up my voice, somehow these tools felt too small and frankly insignificant juxtaposed with the mountain I had to climb. I felt like I was wearing sandals on the hike. I wanted all the bells and whistles. A shortcut, a secret passage towards the summit. I wanted someone else to fix my problem and this silly little sound coming from bubbles in a cup felt like it was mocking me.

Despite my hesitation I persevered and with every session with Therese I felt my shoulders relax a little. When she finally broke through we veered in directions I had only been in therapy. I had nothing to hide behind. Even if I found a shield, it was of no use. She could read me like a book. As we became more comfortable we broke down the blocks in my brain and began the difficult process of unfurling my physical trauma from my emotional.

When your body is your instrument, it becomes so tangled, you don’t know where one ends and the other begins. There’s been tears, setbacks, relapses but also joy and laughter. Satisfaction and breakthroughs. Ultimately I always feel myself becoming better just by being in her presence.

The first half of my 2023 felt like a silent film. I entered social situations with caution – I still do. With tour dates in my purview I tried everything to revive my voice, nursing it back to health like a baby bird. But with the constant fear of causing more damage, my priority was preservation. I missed important friendship milestones. I retreated from people who couldn’t wrap their head around my silent injury. Within this silence I learnt how to set boundaries. I paused my life and put things into perspective.

One morning sitting in Therese’s office, as we went through our usual check ins, she casually said something along the lines of We can’t get away with what we did in our 20’s, you should embrace this new chapter not shy away, with your 30’s comes a new sense of self and ownership. Although it stung a little to grieve a part of me, I felt empowered by this new resilient woman sitting in my chair.

I don’t think Therese will ever understand how much she means to me and how much she saved me. She taught me to fall in love with my voice again. She taught me how to swim in a sinking ship. She reminded me to slow down and be patient. All the while, offering up little tidbits and parts of herself like tiny life rafts that I know were to make me feel less alone. My voice journey, much like life, isn’t perfect. Healing isn’t linear but now my voice is my biggest signal, it's the canary in the coal mine. If something doesn’t feel right I take it as a sign to slow down, check my vitals, get on top of my mental health or just acknowledge that some days are imperfect.

In hindsight, the year I lost my voice has ironically become the year that I found it.

Merci x

Therese Dodds