Before more deeply sharing my stories of exploring gender affirming voicework, it is important to consider what it might mean to queerly tell stories. While this story arose alongside both the tensions and love I have for my voice and gender, it also arose concurrently to identifying a thesis research project that I might pursue to complete my Master of Music Therapy degree at Slippery Rock University. The intersections of these areas quickly led to the realization that an autoethnography, more specifically a queer autoethnography, would serve as my research method.

Autoethnography is a research method that involves the author writing about “epiphanies that stem from, or are made possible by, being part of a culture or by possessing a particular cultural identity” (Carolyn Ellis, ¹ Tony Adams, & Arthur Bochner, 2011, para. 8). Pulling from autobiography and ethnography, it is a study of the self in culture (Tony Adams & Carolyn Ellis, 2012) and is both a process for engaging in research and a product with its finished text (Tony Adams & Carolyn Ellis, 2012; Carolyn Ellis, Tony Adams, & Arthur Bochner, 2011; Carolyn Ellis & Arthur Bochner, 2006). In autoethnography, authors pull together their experiences, reflexively drawing upon many different kinds of materials, including personal memories, interviews, journals, memos, and recordings, and creatively working with them through writing, music, art, poetry, creative endeavors – all in efforts to share epiphanies of lived experience (Tony Adams & Carolyn Ellis, 2012; Carolyn Ellis, Tony Adams, & Arthur Bochner, 2011; Carolyn Ellis & Arthur Bochner, 2006). Reflexivity is vital for autoethnography, with authors deeply engaging with their own stories to more complexly understand them. In telling these stories, autoethnographers are mindful of aesthetics and use conventions of storytelling such as character, scene, and plot development and by showing, telling, alternating points of view, and using thick descriptions (Tony Adams & Carolyn Ellis, 2012; Carolyn Ellis, Tony Adams, & Arthur Bochner, 2011).

More specifically considering queer autoethnography, Tony Adams and Stacy Holman Jones (2008) have avoided clearly defining this research method because of the ways it would pin down and hem in the complexities of what it could be into something easily digestible and identifiable. They have, however, hinged together queer theory with autoethnography.

Simply, although incompletely described because of the ways it can have many meanings, queer theory is a critical theory and theoretical framework which involves deconstructing and destabilizing normal, fixed, and binary understandings. Queer theories have their birthplace in the work of Judith Butler (1990, 1993, 2004), Michel Foucault (1975, 1978), and many others. Common features of queer theories include “resisting the categorization of people; challenging the idea of essential identities; questioning binaries like gay/straight, male/female; demonstrating how things are contextual, based on geography, history, culture, etc.; and examining the power relations underlying certain understandings, categories, identities, etc.” (Meg-John Barker & Julia Scheele, 2016, p. 31). Queer can be an adjective (i.e., a queer person), a derogatory noun and slur (i.e., the queer), identity (i.e., I am queer), or a verb (i.e., to queer something). Here, I turn to queer as a verb, meaning to take action. This draws upon common features of queer theories in efforts to destabilize and dismantle normative understandings, stories, and knowledge.

Tony and Stacy have expressed that both queer theory and autoethnography disrupt traditional narratives around research and the ‘norm’; commit themselves to novelty and innovation through reflexivity; embrace the fluidity and instability of identity; serve as sites of “discursive trouble” to call out social injustices (referencing Judith Butler’s work); and are critiqued in similar ways due to their commitment to reflexivity (2008, 2010, 2011, 2016). What I particularly love about the writings of Tony and Stacy is the way they leave room for me, in reading their texts, to arrive at my own understandings of what autoethnography, and more specifically queer autoethnography, is. Autoethnography as queer seems to be aimed at an autoethnographic process of writing and rewriting, of engaging in creative practices, to hinge together meaning and unhinge that meaning all in one breath, to find partial understandings that continue to change and develop. “Queering autoethnography embraces fluidity, resists definitional fixity, looks to self and structures as relational accomplishments, and takes seriously the need to create more livable, equitable, and just wants of living” (Tony Adams & Stacy Holman Jones, 2008, p. 384). I understand that this method encourages us to move outside of clear categories and to dismantle set labels and understandings by embracing languages’ failure to fully or accurately capture or contain us. Further, it involves positioning identity as shifting and changing over time, thus requiring constant negotiation and navigation through different contexts (Tony Adams & Stacy Holman Jones, 2010). It embraces “stories of pleasure, of gratification, of the mundane, as they intersect, crisscrossing rhizomatically with stories of subjugation, abuse, and oppression” (2010, p. 385).

Due to the permanent nature of texts in that they often cannot be altered once published, Tony and Stacy describe texts as fixed identities. Understanding this, a queer autoethnographer:

This corner further creates a fixed, unmoving, static identity where, “[i]n the place of relationality, performativity, and transitivity, we create singularity, clarity, and certainty” (2016, p. 211). I understand this to mean that the queer autoethnographer tells stories that: lack clarity due to the author moving away from fixed understandings, lack clarity due to the author being in the midst of ever-evolving conflict (i.e., no resolution of the story), or do not offer the kind of concreteness that academia tends to value. I further understand this as leaving the author in a vulnerable space, subject to criticism and outright rejection for their failure to offer ‘meaningful’ ‘academic’ understandings. This is particularly true when considering more creative texts.

Relatedly, Tony and Stacy have written about the queer autoethnographic process as a cyclical one that circles around three important pieces: the autoethnographic (the personal cultural story), the queer (the parts of the story that draw attention to a problem), and the reflexive (the understanding of how we frame ourselves and others) (2011). This way of engaging with the author’s stories involves embracing a stance of “never becoming comfortable, always already wanting and being ready to (re)create” (Tony Adams & Stacy Holman Jones, 2010, p. 150), understanding that both author and reader continue to “become” while engaging with the author’s stories. Tony and Stacy described this as writing without endings (2011). With all this in mind, queer autoethnography can be considered a queer political action in the ways it challenges dominant discourse and grand narratives (Tony Adams & Stacy Holman Jones, 2008).

In terms of representing and more deeply exploring my early wanderings of gender affirming voicework, queer autoethnography has served as an ideal playground, providing me with tools to tell my story grounded in queer theory while continuing to queer my thought processes as well as the foundations of what gender affirming voicework might be.

With their living room as their underwater ocean trove, a young child wholeheartedly belts, on repeat, at the top of their lungs:

Watching ‘The Little Mermaid’ as a child, they see themself in Ariel’s story – the mermaid with the beautiful voice who wanted more than what she had…who wanted to be where the people are. They intuitively know something then that they wouldn’t ² fully realize until their 20’s. They love Ariel because she is curious and adventurous. She wants to be a part of something different from what she is told she is a part of. She doesn’t want the ocean … she wants something … more. She wants land, streets, fire, feet. And she is determined and independent, knowing that she doesn’t solely belong where she is and standing up for that. Doing something about it, with or without permission. And her voice is one of the most important aspects of her identity. It is what makes her recognizable to others, what others use to define who she is. Without it, she isn’t Ariel. Just a girl without a voice, walking on dry land. Misperceived and misunderstood.

A twenty-three-year-old childlike person begins research, still intuitively knowing themself to be Ariel walking on dry land, having an intimate knowledge of who they are. Nonbinary. Neither singularly man nor woman. Something much more complicated. They hold the fluidity of both fins and feet, their gender as fluid as the magic that shifts Ariel from one state of being to another. But people do not hear them for who they are. Their voice does not carry with it any real or perceivable sound for who they know themself to be. It carries ‘girl’, ‘woman’, ‘female’. They are not heard. At times, it is like they have no voice at all.

Yet their voice – my voice – is such an important and intimate part of me. As a musician – more specifically, a singer – it is often my instrument of choice, an instrument that I carry around with me into every space I occupy. It is one of the very first instruments I started studying in middle school and that I continued to study throughout college as my primary instrument. My voice is something I take pride in and often receive compliments about. I know my voice well and how to use it to engage in quality music. In fact, making music with my voice is one of my favorite things to do. It is self-soothing, both a resource and strength. It vibrates my body with warmth, filling up the spaces within me and extending into the spaces around me. My voice connects me with other people, and yet it also separates me in the way it offers one of many ways to misgender me. Of course, my voice is not the only site of misperception, as my body makeup and gender expressions also play important roles. However, it cannot be denied that when someone hears my voice paired with my body and expressions, whether I am singing or speaking, they often make assumptions about who I am and how I must identify. I love this voice even as I am frustrated by it.

Early on in my voice explorations, I emailed the following to my professor and thesis advisor, Susan Hadley, with whom I had been sharing the complexities of gender:

As I reflected more on what I expressed in this email, I thought of times where my high notes would blossom – where the sound would pour out of me and everything would just work. I recalled these moments as feeling ‘good,’ ‘right,’ filled with confidence, like it all just made sense. My voice was an extension of me, expanding into the room, taking up as much space as it could. And in sharp contrast, I thought of specific moments where I shut down and these notes would not work, regardless of how hard I tried to access them. The sound – lost somewhere within me, not finding its way out. My voice – clunky, forced, harsh, pushed into a space that wasn’t working. I recalled how some of these moments occurred in the presence of others, particularly in voice lessons, and how this often brought me to the verge of tears, halting the work I was doing.

These questions and reflections arose within a desire to understand my voice and gender in all their complexities and to access vocal sounds that accurately and authentically reflect how I know myself to be. I’ve been humbled by the way I have, at times, found myself attempting to leave the fixed box of female/feminine/woman only to attempt to box and limit my sound and gender to “one true authentic” way of existing. I’ve instead been trying to embrace the idea of queer voicings – of accessing something that feels authentic at least for this moment, recognizing that it might change and shift with the passage of time. Since writing the above email over two and a half years ago, I’ve realized that there are certainly moments of singing and speaking where I openly embrace the femininity of my voice, with/for myself, with friends and family, and with those I work with clinically. Sometimes this feels right, wholesome, affirming. However, more often than not, this comes with discomfort, especially as these sounds often arise within my personal life when I am feeling ungrounded or when I’m navigating feelings of vulnerability. I often feel much more connected with my gender when I sit within sounds that would likely be associated with masculinity or androgyny. Not always – but often. Further, musically, I have found that I am most at home when singing in the lower and richer parts of my voice. In particular, I love the way these sounds rattle and vibrate my chest, neck, and body in ways that bring about a sense of aliveness and fullness. Again, not always – but often.

I longed for a voice, particularly a speaking voice, that would be perceived in a more androgynous-something-outside-of-man-and-woman kind of way – something that would not as easily lead to female perceptions of gender and that would hold my gender in all the ways it shifts. Importantly, I desired for this voice to exist simultaneously to the singing voice that is such a strength and resource for me. That is, I wanted my voice to be more androgynous, to hold the ways I embody both my masculinity and femininity, but I did not want to lose the familiarity I had with my singing voice, the instrument that I felt (and feel) so intimately connected with.

I began engaging with various bodies of literature from the field of speech-language pathology as well as other fields specific to musical vocal training and vocal health, all of which considered trans (and subsumed within that, nonbinary) voices. I learned that many trans men and female-assigned nonbinary persons pursue hormone therapy ⁵ (i.e., they take testosterone) given how permanent and effective it is at not only creating vocal changes but other bodily changes (Eli Coleman, Walter Bockting, Marsha Botzer, Peggy Cohen-Kettenis, Griet DeCuypere, Jamie Feldman, Lin Fraser, Jamison Green, Gail Knudson, Walter Meyer, Stan Monstrey, Richard Adler, George Brown, Aaron Devor, Randall Ehrbar, Randi Ettner, Evan Eyler, Rob Garofalo, Dan Karasic, Arlene Istar Lev, Gal Mayer, Heino Meyer-Bahlburg, Blaine Paxton Hall, Friedmann Pfäfflin, Katherine Rachlin, Bean Robinson, Loren Schechter, Vin Tangpricha, Mich van Trotensburg, Anne Vitale, Sam Winter, Stephen Whittle, Kevan Wylie, & Ken Zucker, 2012 ⁶ ; Shelagh Davies & Joshua Goldberg, 2006; Shelagh Davies, Viktória Papp, & Christella Antoni, 2015). I further learned that a person can experience specific vocal problem areas in using testosterone (e.g., pitch range/variability, vocal control/stability, vocal power, vocal endurance, glottal function, the singing voice, breathing, muscle tension/posture, and other functions not specified; David Azul, Ulrika Nygren, Maria Södersten, & Christiane Neuschaefer-Rube, 2017). More specifically, singers can experience difficulties with a decrease in pitch range (Richard Adler, Alexandros Constansis, & John van Borsel, 2012) and resonance (Alexandros Constansis, 2009).

Yes, it is true that if I had pursued hormone therapy, my voice post-testosterone would essentially function in the same way it did pre-testosterone (i.e., the mechanics behind how my voice is able to produce sound would be the same). But there would be differences to that functionality which would change how I know how to use my voice.

For instance, imagine this situation on any other instrument you might know well; I will use the cello as an example. Imagine you’ve been playing a specific model and type of cello for most of your playing life. Because of the length of time you’ve been playing, you know the intricacies of the cello. Further, because you’ve been playing that particular cello throughout this time, you know that cello intimately. You know what string tends to go out of tune. You know how much pressure is needed by your fingers or the bow to create a specific kind of sound. You know how long the endpin needs to be for the cello to feel most right in your body. You know how your hand needs to be placed to jump from one note to the next. You know the physical experience of playing that cello and the ways it vibrates across your body and into the room around you. You know that instrument in an intimate way.

Now let’s imagine that you start playing the upright bass for the first time. Sure, the mechanics behind how the cello and bass function are essentially the same, but there are subtle and perhaps drastic differences that make those instruments uniquely different. You would likely fumble in playing the bass, at least at first, not knowing it in the same kind of intimate ways that you know the cello. The strings would feel different at the point they meet your fingertips. The instrument’s size and shape – settled cautiously and perhaps clumsily in your hands and on your body. The bow held at new and perhaps strange angles by your arm. The vibrational feedback experienced with a uniqueness. The bass would in many ways be foreign territory, even as it might feel vaguely familiar. Perhaps this vagueness would be a kind of change that you want. Perhaps you would find that the bass is your instrument in a way the cello never was. Perhaps it feels like home, perfectly sitting on your body, in your hands, at your fingertips – as though it is simply an extension of who you are and how you exist in this world. If so – beautiful – you keep playing the bass. If not, then you simply put it down and pick up your cello or even another instrument altogether.

But again, the voice cannot be picked up and put down like other instruments. That intimacy and connection that I have with my singing voice is something that is more important to me than something that I could potentially connect more with. Perhaps I lacked the willingness to venture into the unknown – to relearn my instrument and the ways testosterone would give it new intricacies. Or, perhaps, I instead wanted the voice I know and love – even as it doesn’t always fit me, even as it at times frustrates me – to be my home.

I continued to have tensions with the possibility of taking testosterone, simultaneously understanding that testosterone is an important and valuable resource for many trans and nonbinary people. I learned that in addition to vocal surgeries (something I knew for certain I did not want to pursue), speech therapy was a possibility, one that was often used in conjunction with testosterone (Coleman et al., 2012). Clinical guidelines suggested that speech therapy can be used to make clinical changes around gendered parameters of the voice including pitch, intonation, resonance, articulation, speech rate, strength, language usage, and nonverbal communication, all of which influence perceptions of gender (David Azul, 2015; Richard Adler, Alexandros Constansis, John van Borsel, 2012; Shelagh Davies & Joshua Goldberg, 2006; Shelagh Davies, Viktória Papp, & Christella Antoni, 2015).

Despite knowing that there isn’t a universal feminine or masculine voice given how perceptions of the voice are steeped within cultural understandings, there are patterns of speech that are more likely to be perceived in feminine or masculine ways. Patterns that tend to be perceived in more feminine ways and therefore lead to people more likely being identified as women/girls include those who tend to speak within the range of 180-220 Hz (around F3-A3) (Shelagh Davies, Viktória Papp, & Christella Antoni, 2015); with a greater range of inflection; with higher head resonances and brighter, more nasalized, breathy, and weaker sounds; and with lighter but more drawn out articulation (Richard Adler, Sandy Hirsch, & Michelle Mordaunt, 2012; Coleman et al., 2012; Shelagh Davies & Joshua Goldberg, 2006; Shelagh Davies, Viktória Papp, & Christella Antoni, 2015). Speech patterns that tend to be perceived in more masculine ways, leading to identification as men/boys, include those who tend to speak within the range of 100-140 Hz (around G2-Db3; Shelagh Davies, Viktória Papp, & Christella Antoni, 2015); with a more level or monotone kind of inflection; with lower chest resonances and richer, warmer, stronger, and clearer sounds; and with staccato-like and punched out articulation (Richard Adler, Sandy Hirsch, & Michelle Mordaunt, 2012; Coleman et al., 2012; Shelagh Davies & Joshua Goldberg, 2006; Shelagh Davies, Viktória Papp, & Christella Antoni, 2015).

I learned that of these parameters, there are certain ones that are more significant for gender perception, particularly when considering work with trans and nonbinary individuals. Pitch (or fundamental frequency) is one of the most important cues of gender (Marylou Pausewang Gelfer & Quinn Bennett, 2013; Marylou Pausewang Gelfer & Viktoria Mikos, 2005; James Hillenbrand & Michael Clark, 2009; Verena Skuk & Stefan Schweinberger, 2014). Within the space between more feminine and masculine speech patterns is an androgynous range of 145-175 Hz (around D3-F3; Shelagh Davies, Viktória Papp, & Christella Antoni, 2015), where resonance actually becomes the most important cue of gender, more specifically the formant ⁷ frequencies of vowels (Donald Childers & Ke Wu, 1991; Shelagh Davies & Joshua Goldberg, 2006; Shelagh Davies, Viktória Papp, & Christella Antoni, 2015; Marylou Pausewang Gelfer & Quinn Bennett, 2013; James Hillenbrand & Michael Clark, 2009; Verena Skuk & Stefan Schweinberger, 2014). Further, resonance is important even outside of that androgynous range as words/phrases get longer and more complex, moving from vowels all the way to full connected speech (Marylou Pausewang Gelfer & Quinn Bennett, 2013). This means that when working with trans and nonbinary voices, resonance is uniquely important to perceptions of gender (Richard Adler, Alexandros Constansis, John van Borsel, 2012; Coleman et al., 2012; Shelagh Davies & Joshua Goldberg, 2006; Shelagh Davies, Viktória Papp, & Christella Antoni, 2015; Sandy Hirsch & Marylou Pausewang Gelfer, 2012; Jane Thornton, 2008).

Through these explorations, I found a Voice and Communication Program specific to trans (and nonbinary) individuals that was developed by Richard Adler (2012), which was focused on vocal feminization but would also be relevant to vocal masculinization. It was suggested that throughout treatment, a client’s voice should be measured for visual and auditory feedback and that clients should keep a journal of their successes and failures. Further, the use of diaphragmatic breathing exercises, speech therapy protocols, various speech therapy assessment tools, and progressive relaxation exercises should be incorporated. Richard advised that the client practice new speech patterns by reading short and long poems, taking part in spontaneous conversations with the clinician, and employing these techniques in their everyday social environments. Lastly, working on singing techniques, if appropriate, was mentioned. Richard Adler, Alexandros Constansis, and John van Borsel (2012) have further offered suggestions specific to working with those who are masculinizing their voices: working to maintain a lower pitch and comfortable range; establishing chest resonance; establishing diaphragmatic breathing patterns and stabilizing posture; producing a strong, easy vocal onset; eliminating the harsh glottal attack; releasing tension from the jaw and tongue; and releasing body tension.

At this point, I had not begun any kind of intentional voicework. However, I had grown more attentive and aware – sometimes hyperaware – of my own vocal tendencies.

Further engaging with the literature specific to feminizing or masculinizing the voice through speech therapy, there were disparities identified by the authors I was reading. Most notably, much of the literature focused on the experiences of trans women (and subsumed within that, male-assigned nonbinary persons). Although present, literature on vocal masculinization is sorely lacking in comparison to literature regarding vocal feminization through the use of speech therapy (Richard Adler, Alexandros Constansis, & John van Borsel, 2012; David Azul, 2015; David Azul, Ulrika Nygren, Maria Södersten, & Christiane Neuschaefer-Rube, 2017; Shelagh Davies & Joshua Goldberg, 2006; Shelagh Davies, Viktória Papp, & Christella Antoni, 2015). I learned that this difference within the literature is likely attributed to the impacts of testosterone on the voice. For male-assigned individuals who went through puberty, they’ve already experienced the permanent and irreversible effects of high levels of testosterone in the body. Because of this, hormone therapy (using feminizing hormones and not testosterone) does not impact the vocal cords of male-assigned individuals in the drastic ways masculinizing hormones can impact female-assigned persons (Coleman et al., 2012). This means that trans women and male-assigned nonbinary persons must pursue other options such as speech therapy and/or vocal surgeries, while trans men and female-assigned persons are more likely to use hormone therapy (i.e., taking testosterone) because of how effective it is. However, given the difficulties that may be experienced by individuals who take testosterone to masculinize the voice (David Azul, Ulrika Nygren, Maria Södersten, & Christiane Neuschaefer-Rube, 2017; Richard Adler, Alexandros Constansis, & John van Borsel, 2012; Alexandros Constansis, 2009), speech-language pathologists expressed that speech therapy for vocal masculinization needs to be further explored (Richard Adler, Alexandros Constansis, & John van Borsel, 2012; David Azul, 2015; David Azul, Ulrika Nygren, Maria Södersten, & Christiane Neuschaefer-Rube, 2017). I suggest this needs to happen not just for those taking testosterone but for others such as myself who are reluctant to pursue its usage.

All of this knowledge still left me with tension that I couldn’t quite shake. I thought, “This is great – but also – what does this mean for me?” All of this literature discussed trans men or trans women, yet the literature that I might relate to more as a female-assigned nonbinary person was not explored to the depth that satisfied the uncertainty and ambiguity I was experiencing. I knew the information that I was soaking up was important, but I struggled to understand myself in relation to it.

I found aspects of myself in two paragraphs that existed in a larger forty-two-page article authored by Shelagh Davies, Viktória Papp, and Christella Antoni (2015):

And in an earlier clinical guideline authored by Shelagh Davies and Joshua Goldberg (2006) which utilized similar, if not identical, language as the above, there was also the statement that “[s]ome transgender persons who desire changes to speech and voice seek maximum feminization or masculinization, while others experience relief with a more androgynous presentation” (p. 168).

I was both excited and put off by the collective of these statements. I felt excited by the way they recognized my existence as a nonbinary person for the first time in the literature. Because of this, I stayed in this space of excitement, perhaps because it felt safer than feeling the anger that existed beneath. These statements were one nonbinary drop of water in the vast binary ocean of trans vocal experiences that were explored within these clinical guidelines. Again, they were two paragraphs in a larger 42-page article and were almost verbatim to those found in a 30-page guide published almost 10 years earlier. There had been no movement, except the removal of any vague statement about those seeking androgynous voices – that is, me. Further, I experienced the way ‘bimodal’ speech patterns were discussed as dismissive in some regards, as if this queer vocal fluidity was often explained away by the medical community as improbable…or worse impossible…or even worse unhealthy. This caused tension that I now recognize as being tied to the ways vocal fixity (i.e., one singular speech pattern that isn’t variable) is antithetical to understandings grounded in queer theory, and it was also not aligned with my own experience of my voice and gender.

I eventually found the work of David Azul, who seemed to embrace more fluid understandings of the voice, emphasizing that

David’s work felt unique from the larger narrative surrounding trans and nonbinary vocal experiences, instead alluding to the fact that not all people seeking vocal masculinization have the same needs (2016) and that there is a need to shift to client-centered perspectives (2015) for vocal change. I found great comfort in David’s work, even as it remained only one small corner of the literature that I had engaged with.

As I explored in my recent article where I introduced gender affirming voicework (2019b), “Also present within the majority of the literature was an emphasis on either the speaking voice or the singing voice with little to no discussion of the overlap that exists between them” (p. 7), with discussions of the speaking voice focusing on vocal feminization and the experiences of trans women (and nonbinary, male-assigned persons) and discussions of the singing voice focusing on vocal masculinization and the experiences of trans men (and nonbinary, female-assigned persons). There was very little variation to these patterns, and they were reflective of my own thinking in relation to my voice.

There was a pivotal moment that shifted my understandings of all of this that I remember with such clarity. Before this, I knew my research project would be exploring the intersections of speech-language pathology and music therapy, but I still held tension about whether I could do this with or without testosterone in a safe way. I asked Sue Hadley if we could set up a time to Skype and talk about the tension I was experiencing. I sat on my bed in my apartment on the verge of tears talking about how most of the literature on female-assigned people focused on those who took testosterone, telling her that I wasn’t sure how to gain access to the kind of voice I desired. I felt like I had to pick one voice or the other and that by choosing a more gender affirming voice, I would have to choose taking testosterone and lose (or at least experience difficulties with) my singing voice. Sue supported me and reflected back everything I shared but also questioned and challenged me. Specifically, she said a series of words that drastically altered my understandings of my voice and the kind of work I might engage in.

Relief poured into and out of me. These words made sense of all the knowledge I already had about myself, my voice, how to use my voice as a singer, and all the literature I had been engaging with. As I’ve previously written (2019b),

This moment of embracing the both/and of my singing and speaking – this moment of queering – offered such clarity, even as it might seem so simple now.

With newfound excitement and energy, I turned to Christopher Scott, my former undergraduate voice teacher and (at the time) current graduate chamber choir director. I told him of my vocal desires, some of the tensions that I had been experiencing, and about this voicework. His excitement was palpable and validated that this was important work. We met in his office and after talking, jumped into playing around on the piano and with my voice, similar to my previous voice lesson experiences with him. It was familiar but also new and exciting.

I can’t express how affirming it was to hear these words. It was a validation that I think I needed to hear in order to move on.

From this meeting with Chris and my conversation with Sue, I left with more questions than answers. But I also left with a drive to more deeply understand the possibilities of these ideas. I returned to the literature, first more deeply exploring formant frequencies and technical understandings of the voice, then tying these understandings and knowledge from speech-language pathology into that of music therapy.

Before going on, I encourage you to pause here and read through what I’ve already written on more technical understandings of the voice as well as relevant literature in music therapy (2019b, pp. 8-12), as I have decided not to more deeply explore them here to avoid redundancy and preserve space.

Throughout my voicework journey, I engaged in a variety of experiences both on my own and with others. Much of my work with others consisted of consulting with Chris on technique within vocal exercises and repertoire, and even engaging in some speech work with him. It also consisted of me engaging in solo voicework sessions where I pooled together my experiences and knowledge and explored what this work might be within a more therapeutic space, although this was sometimes difficult to do because I was working on myself. I began very focused on my physical voice and vocal function, working in a similar way to what might be experienced in a voice lesson. However, in a messy, unclear, and simultaneous manner, this eventually shifted into more in-the-moment ways of working. This voicework also included a focus on both body/breath-based work as well as emotionally-driven experiences.

Voice-lesson-like work. After working with my body and remaining attentive to my breath, I would start voicing.

https://soundcloud.com/maevongumble/collage-of-vocal-warm-ups.

https://soundcloud.com/maevongumble/speech-work-excerpt.

In working in this liminal space between singing and speaking, I grew attentive to how I was engaging in the fluidity of song and speech naturally, working with the space between exercises where I would insert little comments, either in talking with Chris (in our meetings) or talking aloud to myself about what just happened within my voice.

I was attempting to navigate an exercise that originated outside the context of my everyday speaking experiences. I wasn’t necessarily working with how my speech was already being voiced. I was doing an exercise and expecting that work within my singing to automatically shift into my speech.

Sometimes this more voice-lesson-like work involved engaging with technique or expanding pitch rage while singing a song – often changing the key of the song to do so.

https://soundcloud.com/maevongumble/the-promise.

There was a point during my own voicework when I became very aware of how I was shifting sound to access the lower, richer parts of my voice with ease and deep resonance. To access that kind of sound requires patience, an opening up, a blossoming of sound, an awareness of sensation – all to access what feels like some deeper-than-my-chest register. These sensations clue me into being more connected with a voice that resonates with me.

Accessing that sound required me to realize specific sensations experienced within myself that opened up the space so that I could more intentionally enter it outside of just sheer luck. For me this included: focusing on the sensations felt on my hard palate, feeling the vibrations of that and tuning into it to connect with my chest voice; focusing on letting the space between my top back teeth grow wider and bigger; engaging my whole body in the creation of sound; and focusing on the imagery of “raw and real” sound.

In-the-moment work. Although I have found great value in this voice-lesson-like work, it often invoked a kind of performance anxiety where I just wanted to “do it right” – to sing/speak androgyny in the “right” way. Given my history as a voice student, I associated lesson and practice spaces as those in which I was focused on doing something correctly, improving my technique and being “right.” This wasn’t helpful or productive. Nor was it queer. Nor was it really “me” in that it was focused on performing and doing “right” – that is, not just being with myself. It was quite distant from the raw imagery that I eventually realized was important. However, there was a gradual and almost unnoticeable shift from “How am I being heard by others?” to “What am I hearing from within myself?” And that shifted me out of more voice-lesson-like work and into more in-the-moment ways of working.

I would warm-up around different “givens” of improvisation (Tony Wigram, 2004).

I so desired for the kinds of music-making I was doing to be musically rich – to have a kind of depth to it instead of a thinner kind of support. It was hard to fulfill this need on my own while still attempting to voice and be attentive to the work I was doing in that capacity.

I also worked around improvisational givens focused on technique or different thoughts.

https://soundcloud.com/maevongumble/improvisational-warm-up.

Although I was focused on technique and more deeply experiencing my voice by tuning into physical sensation, this improvisation moved into just being with my voice within the music, finding the ways that I wanted to engage in that moment. It was so grounding, and it satisfied the desire I had to be contained and expanded upon within the music.

There was a pivotal moment that shifted me more deeply into in-the-moment ways of working.

https://soundcloud.com/maevongumble/coretone-variation.

After listening back to the recording of this, I recognized that when I first began searching for my CoreTone, I was actually closer to an F3 or G3 than I was to an E3. Further, I even jumped up higher than that at times to a B3. At first, I thought: “Well, I did that wrong.” But then I thought: “Does it really matter? Perhaps that can give me important information.” I started off at F3/G3 but didn’t stay with those notes, despite the fact that these were really where my voice was. I desired to sit lower within my voice. That feels important. I wondered how working with the CoreTone in this kind of work could give me insight into where the first sound starts (where the voice is itself) and then where the voice wants to be (where it gravitates toward). There was movement within my voice, and on the piano, I unintentionally was supporting the extremes of my voice (E-B) by playing an E minor chord.

Then I shifted outside of isolating the CoreTone, instead focusing on larger melodic phrases of speech. This began with poetry and song lyrics because that felt safer and less awkward. Eventually though, this moved into more intentionally working with my organic conversational speech.

https://soundcloud.com/maevongumble/poetry-speech-work.

Some of the most exciting work for me has come out of engaging in this kind of chant-like, opening up of sound, where with repetition, the sound becomes freer, more relaxed, more grounded. More often than not, I’ve left these kinds of experiences and have remained in the vocal sound that I had just spent however long improvising/toning within. It’s like the repetition made it easier to come back home because I had been “living” within that space for a little bit.

Breath and body-based work. Partway through this voicework, I also began working with an Alexander Technique ¹⁰ teacher focused on body awareness, releasing unnecessary tension, and becoming more comfortable with my body through chair work and constructive rest. Many musicians pursue Alexander Technique to decrease tension and improve their own body awareness, and, in agreement with Chris, this felt supportive of the kind of work I was focused on. Based on some of my experiences in Alexander Technique, I felt the importance of spending time with my body; however, I struggled with the ways Alexander Technique is such a hands-on approach, with the teacher having you lay on a table or sit in a chair. They’ll go through various body parts, picking up your arm, leg, foot, head, etc. to support them and ask you to give them the weight of that body part, letting go of unnecessary tension. As I’ve previously expressed,

While I strongly believe that the perfect amount of discomfort can lead to growth, the amount of discomfort that I was experiencing in these lessons was simply too much and very triggering for me.

I instead found ways of integrating some of the tenets of Alexander Technique, particularly that of releasing unnecessary tension. This would be incorporated into the body and breathe experiences that I almost always started with during my solo voicework sessions, prior to voicing.

I also had ideas about embodiment experiences based on Michael Chekhov’s Imaginary Body acting exercise (2002) ¹² and using gender imagery (i.e., imagery that specifically serves as a representation of gender). This was something that I minimally explored personally due to my own significant discomfort around the body, but I did have opportunities to lead a few experientials with classmates and during a CMTE with colleagues to explore what this work might be. These experientials asked others to tune into the way they sit/stand/move in gendered ways – to the ways that their body and movements are a part of their gender and gender expression. It also asked of them to consider what it would be to sit/stand/move in the most authentic gender affirming way. Many individuals shared feelings of shame around their bodies, regardless of whether they identified as cis, trans, and/or nonbinary.

On paper, these ideas of being so present to your body perhaps sound so simple, yet, in practice, it personally feels quite difficult, almost impossible. Wading through the waters of “me” versus “not me” when I’m swimming in an ocean that seems to just keep getting larger and larger is beyond overwhelming. It’s so easy to drown in something that’s that big. And if I’m able to swim through it, to breathe in enough oxygen to keep myself alive, if I’m able to find myself within the water, owning the fullness of that requires a vulnerability – a kind of nakedness to the entire world. Letting that child rise to the water’s surface feels so radically brave and courageous. Authenticity means nakedly existing as I am, despite what might come of that.

With reflection, I recognize the ways I have been resistant to more deeply engaging in the intersections of body-based and imagery work. Words fail to express how difficult that work is, at least for me. My naked, vulnerable body – both as a metaphor (i.e., imagery) and as a reality (i.e., my physical body) – is something that I look upon with disgust. Writing these words feels unsafe because of the way they are so very real. It is easy to silence a metaphor out of existence, to look upon myself and cast them to the bottom of the ocean. It is harder to deny a physical body its reality, to open my eyes and see my own skin, to say that that skin is not real. Writing these words only for myself invokes deep shame and hurt. Writing them with the thought of these words being read by you, the reader, invokes fear – fear of being seen, of being witnessed, of being unworthy. A naked self at the bottom of the ocean cannot be seen by anyone, even myself. Hence the avoidance of body-based work. I am still working on this, and it is unbelievably hard.

Emotions/identity-based work. After starting this work, I also began working with a music therapist who was trained in the Bonny method of GIM ¹³ and ways of adapting this work to use music and imagery at various levels. This was in order to engage in intensive (bi)weekly psychotherapeutic work. Although my reasonings for seeking out a music therapist did not seem based in voicework but rather other personal life challenges, it soon became apparent that these spaces which initially seemed very separate within my mind were quite connected. Many of the themes from both spaces seemed to overlap, although it took me a long while to realize this. Interestingly, the focus of my work with this therapist grew to be on authenticity and integration, among other things, both of which obviously parallel voicework focused on accessing and embodying an affirming voice. A dichotomy of voicework and therapy work existed in my mind; however, a queering eventually took place where I embraced the overlap and then reviewed my experiences in therapy to relate them to my experiences of voicework. This included pulling out my therapy mandalas, which are often used as a way of processing experiences within GIM. Within this autoethnography, I have included significant mandalas that voice some of the emotional experiences I was having in voicework but that I didn’t verbalize outside of my therapy until embracing the both/and of these spaces. I have grown substantially from these overlaps, (un)intentionally exploring within therapy many of the resistances that I experienced while engaging in gender affirming voicework.

Of great significance, my work with this music therapist eventually led to voicing and exploring my inner experiences of childhood trauma which profoundly influence my intense discomfort with bodywork. Although the more intimate details of that therapeutic work are beyond the scope of this current paper, more than I am willing to share, and not always completely related to gender affirming voicework, spending time with my body led to me spending time with the impacts of past experiences. However, from the overlaps of my personal therapy work and gender affirming voicework eventually came the understanding that this voicework surrounds healing from gender-based trauma. My own GIM imagery captures so much of the experiences that have led me to gender affirming voicework and also the work itself.

When I began this voicework, my experiences of myself were disconnected from a larger holistic understanding of myself – that is, considering my voice within the scope of my physical body, emotions, internal world, and so on. I was more focused on working with areas of vocal function and not on a more holistic understanding of gender affirming voicework. Further, I was not “in sync” with myself. The innermost parts of me were quite frankly a mess, a never-ending ocean that I felt like some miniscule pinpoint within.

Further, my experiences with my body more often than not led to tension, hesitance, discomfort, and feeling overwhelmed. I was compartmentalized – my voice separate from my body separate from my emotions separate from my gender separate from my larger internal world.

I strongly believe that this deep personal work unconsciously began in voicework and then shifted to my therapy space. With that, I am intrigued by the ways that it could have perhaps been contained within a singular therapeutic space of gender affirming voicework, had I already been working with a therapist knowledgeable in this kind of voicework and prepared for the ways trauma-based work might arise. For instance, more emotion-based work did arise in the gender affirming voicework I explored; however, I believe it was more largely contained within my personal therapy.

https://soundcloud.com/maevongumble/improvising-to-hold-emotion.

This experience was needed for what was going on internally for me, and honestly, is perhaps my “best” representation for what I imagine gender affirming voicework to be because of the ways this experience moved into a more holistic space. This was valuable work, but it could have been more deeply experienced had I been able to process it within a therapy space with a trained music therapist.

I share the above experience not to suggest that emotion-based work in gender affirming voicework is the same as GIM or other music psychotherapeutic approaches – because they are not as they are different ways of working. However, a voicework space could have perhaps contained some of the themes/ideas that where indeed present within my voicework but that more specifically came up in working with that music therapist. This gender affirming voicework, for me, opened up a whole ocean of inner movement on multiple levels – physically in terms of my voice and body, and emotionally in the ways I experience myself in various capacities.

I return to that child from the opening pages of this autoethnography who wholeheartedly belts at the top of their lungs, throwing pure, unfiltered, radical sound at a world whose vastness they haven’t fully realized. That child sings of a desire to run, to jump, to dance, to wander, to be on the surface with the people, to be a part of something they knew they were always a part of. That child felt their humanness and knew their place within the world, within some alternative fairytale that we missed the beginning of. Because, before Ariel was a mermaid, she was human – not the other way around. My real story is that Ariel in her human state got thrown into the ocean, sank deep down into a place she never thought she’d go. To save her, Ursula used her magic to change Ariel from human to mercreature, meaning well although the damage was done. There’s a kind of death in transformation. But perhaps there’s also birth and new life. When it was finally safe enough, Ursula returned Ariel back into a human. And my inner child was always human. They lived through the trauma, but they want us to know that we all missed the point. We all focused on the wrong part of the story. We saw transformation. But it was always a return.

I return to this story in true queer autoethnographic fashion, finding that my understanding of these experiences continues to shift and grow. This is particularly true as I have been relating them back to a music therapy context and to the clinical work that I am now doing to support other trans and nonbinary people in accessing and embodying their own voices and genders. I could go into some of these expanding thoughts here – interweaving my narrative into the theoretical and clinical, more concretely tying these experiences to academic literature and knowledge. However, I will not be doing this, partly because I have previously offered an introductory exploration of these ideas grounded in literature from the fields of speech-language pathology, vocal pedagogy, and music therapy (Maevon Gumble, 2019b).

To venture into an analysis of my lived experience in some way feels like boxing that experience up into a nice, neat package to give to you, as if to say, “This is what all of this meant.” I must critique myself because in my previous article (Maevon Gumble, 2019b), I feel as if I did this, thereby sanitizing myself, firmly pulling the ‘academic’ away from the deeply personal parts of this autoethnography. In actuality, my personal, emotional story is academic and a source of important knowledge without requiring literature to make sense of it. I have so many unanswered questions, but the one thing that I do know is that – as a nonbinary trans music therapist – my journeys of exploring my voice, my gender, my body, and the possibilities of gender affirming voicework have started me along a path that I will likely continue exploring for the rest of my life. I do hope others join me.

Maevon Gumble, MMT, MT-BC, is a board-certified music therapist based in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania (USA) working toward LPC licensure. They currently work as a mobile mental health therapist with older adults within their homes and other community settings (Familylinks). Maevon also maintains a small private practice (Becoming Through Sound) where they offer gender affirming voicework to those seeking to access and embody affirming gender expressions, particularly vocal expressions. Maevon completed their undergraduate and graduate studies at Slippery Rock University (Pennsylvania, USA) and has served as a guest editor on Voices: A World Forum for Music Therapy for the special issue on queering music therapy (No. 3-2019). Maevon's professional interest include continued development of gender affirming voicework.