I’m not the best singer. I stumble while sight reading and gasp for air in the middle of tied notes. My intonation is rarely accurate, and I can never detect a key change. Yet every day, my voice echoes throughout the church hall, the rooms of my home, and the school basement that we call a chorus room. I could have abandoned this hobby like I abandoned ballet at age five and soccer at age seven, accepting that it is simply “not for me.” But unlike these former pursuits, singing has not slipped out of my life. This is because I do not sing to hear the sound of my own voice or showcase my talent. I sing because it provides me the opportunity to fully express my emotions. The passion I exude while performing makes up for what I lack in technical ability, allowing me to engage the audience and connect with the singers around me.

I am often encouraged to stifle my excitement and adopt a pleasantly indifferent attitude in everyday life. Once while dissecting a fetal pig in biology, I became exhilarated by the beauty of the internal structures. My unimpressed lab partner had to ask me to stop gesticulating because I would “hurt someone with that scalpel.” When I’m singing, however, I do not have to curb my passion. Emotionality is an essential aspect of my ability to communicate a story with my voice.

As I stand on risers surrounded by forty talented girls singing “Music Down in My Soul,” my imperfect articulation and staggered breaths are not important. What is meaningful is my soulfulness. When I transform myself into a gospel singer, I create a synergy between myself, the singers around me, and the audience that allows us to feel linked with the music.

With passion for what I do, singing is never an individual experience. When I sing, I use my emotional energy to interact with my fellow singers and provide them with joy. One day in chorus, our accompanist alerted us that our director would be absent for class. She posed an inquiry to the group: “Who would like to be a student conductor?” I was apprehensive at first. Surely, other girls with more technical knowledge would be better suited than I. After much prodding from my peers, I accepted my fate. I would conduct “Lux Aeterna,” a fairly serious and introspective Latin chant. I began with these descriptors in mind, but as soon as I began waving my hands over my head, my anxieties slipped away, and I lost myself in the music. I cued each section with a flourish, unapologetically singing the different voice parts as I went. To signal a crescendo, I leapt into the air, and to indicate quiet, I crouched down. I directed the chorus striding across the room in constant motion. In these moments, I experienced supreme bliss.

My friends later told me that they had never enjoyed the song more. I had been a fantastic conductor, though I had frequently botched the tempo and missed cut-offs. My physical engagement with the music had made them feel invested in the song and had improved their performance. This was the best compliment that I could have ever received. It confirmed my belief that passion is more important than talent, because it is this passion that lifts others up.

I have come to accept that half-heartedness isn’t in my nature. My life without enthusiasm and investment would be like a life without music — and that isn’t a life I intend on living.