A Place to Fall: Unlearning Perfectionism in the Voice Studio

By Megan Durham and Christina Kent

One of my core musical memories was at a piano recital when I was 11. I was a creative young musician –eager to please my teacher yet relishing spontaneous improvisation. Feeling prepared and excited to play for an audience, I sat on the hard wooden bench in the crowded church sanctuary, confidently beginning my piece. As if from the movie, “Inside Out,” Joy was suddenly replaced with a visceral, stop-me-in-my-tracks feeling of Fear taking control. For the first time, I had the thought, people are watching me … not just looking, but listening, observing, judging. I froze. My usual polish, ease, and flair was replaced by blankness, terror, and nausea. At that moment, I could not distinguish between the statement, I make mistakes from I am a mistake. The seeds of perfectionism were sown, and an inability to separate these statements invaded my musical journey.

When I began intentionally unearthing my relationships with perfection, power, and agency in my teaching, I was immediately drawn to the work of Christina Kent. Christina is a mindfulness and voice instructor living in Victoria BC who has spent years chronicling her own journey with these ideas. She reflects on perfectionism’s grip on her own singing: “I realized that I had lost the capacity to hear beauty in my own voice. I felt like I wasn’t allowed to hear beauty - it was dangerous. Believing I was singing beautifully felt like letting go of high standards and not being a true musician. It didn’t feel safe. What felt safe was to constantly scan my singing for deficiencies. And yet this feeling of “safety” meant I was also disconnected from enjoyment, spontaneity, playfulness, creativity, emotional expression - basically all the things that drew me to singing in the first place.”

The seeds of perfectionism are often planted early in our voice education– and can pervade not only our experience of singing, but also our lives as teachers. It can be difficult to separate a joy-filled desire for excellence and a more critical, burden-laden drive to be criticism-proof; however, perfectionism is different from high standards and can be a significant factor in teacher /singer burn-out. In this reflection, we will outline definitions of perfectionism, examine how it infiltrates voice culture, and explore its impact on the quality of exchange and relationship in the voice studio. We will also offer practical somatic explorations to support our individual and collective un-learning. Please take what resonates with you and leave what does not, as the invitation to say “No, thank you” is encouraged. We feel that welcoming “No” into a voice space can be a radical act of resistance! “No” need not be a stopping point, but can function as itself part of the practice–an invitation for autonomy and agency.

What Is Perfectionism?

Perfectionism is the drive to do enough — and do it excellently enough — so that one day you might believe that you are enough. That, my friends, is a fatal sentence. There’s no coming out of that one alive, or with your identity intact. If your worth is linked to what you do and specifically to how well you do it, you will question your worth until your last breath.

—Laura Brewer, “The Practice of Perfectionism”

Perfectionism is not the same thing as striving to be your best. Perfectionism is the belief that if we live perfect, look perfect, and act perfect, we can minimize or avoid the pain of blame, judgement, and shame. It’s a shield. It’s a twenty-ton shield that we lug around thinking it will protect us when, in fact, it’s the thing that’s really preventing us from flight.

—Brené Brown, “The Gifts of Imperfection”

Perfectionism often manifests as a chronic, nagging sense of inadequacy. For many voice teachers, years of juries, competitions, and auditions can gradually disconnect us from our original love of singing, as vocal evaluation becomes increasingly associated with shame, judgment, and rejection.

In such environments, perfectionism can emerge as a survival strategy. When the brain senses threat — emotional, social, or physical — it activates protective mechanisms to prevent further harm. Under chronic or traumatic stress, the body prioritizes safety and clings to whatever response feels most secure. If we’re not given time or agency to process these responses, they may evolve into intractable patterns of bracing and shutdown.

One such pattern is binary thinking — categorizing people, situations, and sounds as either safe or unsafe, good or bad, right or wrong. This embodied dichotomy can become deeply ingrained, making it difficult to perceive complexity, nuance, or the possibility of multiple truths. In voice work, this kind of thinking can obscure our capacity to explore, express, and create both with ourselves and with our students. The inherent subjectivity of artistic endeavor becomes intolerable, and is instead subjugated to a rigid framework of control.

How Perfectionism is Learned

If perfectionism begins as a survival strategy, what are the conditions that necessitate its presence?

One possibility is an environment shaped by unquestioned lineage. Roots, teaching heritage, and performance practice can be invaluable components of education. When left unexamined, however, especially in a profession striving to “do better when we know better” (as Maya Angelou urged), these traditions can unintentionally perpetuate cycles of gatekeeping and power-over dynamics. Most voice teachers form their pedagogical approach based in part on what they learned and observed in their own training. There is great value in reflecting on which aspects of this lineage remain empowering, and which can benefit from interfacing with our developing cultural knowledge.

Consider the dynamics of the commonly inherited “master/ apprentice” model — a structure in which information flows from teacher to student in a one-directional, hierarchical relationship. When applied inflexibly, this model can trap both teacher and student in a cycle of disconnection. The teacher may feel pressure to pass down technical knowledge with seamless authority. Any deviation from the “correct” lineage can feel like personal failure. Students, in turn, may struggle to voice confusion or ask for alternatives, fearing an appearance of incapability or disrespect.

In highly competitive environments, it can feel impossible for a teacher to say, “I don’t know — let’s find out together,” or “Maybe a different approach is needed — let’s explore it.” With perfectionism at the helm, the student-teacher relationship becomes defensive. Both may feel they must perform a role rather than engage in open, mutual exploration.

Ironically, the space most conducive to creativity — spaciousness, slowness, and play — is lost under the pressure to execute a tradition, a technique, a sound, an external expectation. Intrinsic satisfaction gives way to extrinsic validation. In this model, perfectionism flourishes — not because anyone intended harm, but because there was no room to fall.

Sometimes, in an attempt to protect a cherished artistic ideal, our negativity bias can unintentionally masquerade as expertise. Especially when we’ve worked hard to master a tradition, it can be deeply unsettling when something challenges the safety of that structure — whether it’s a new technical approach, musical interpretation, a student saying “No, thank you,” or an interpersonal rupture in the studio. These moments can rattle us, not because we lack care or capability, but because they shake the very strategies we’ve relied on to feel grounded and effective.

This is not about blame. It is about recognizing that perfectionism and care often live side by side. Compassion fatigue and burnout are not signs of failure; they are signs of deep investment.

This power dynamic can also surface through the teacheras-authority or “rescuer” role. With the best of intentions, we may position ourselves as the one who knows best — we are responsible for the student’s vocal health, beauty, and freedom. Over time, this can unintentionally limit a student’s agency, suggesting that they cannot access those things without us. Trapped in this dynamic, students can feel that they need our approval to succeed, and we may depend on that need to legitimize our sense of usefulness or worth.

Giving answers, seeing students respond flawlessly, and maintaining an uninterrupted lineage can feel like markers of success. When those things do not happen, it’s easy to fear that we have fallen short. We may feel stuck — unable to shift our approach or question our methods. Even when we know that mistakes and misunderstandings are essential to learning, we don’t always have the resources to sit with the discomfort they bring. Pain, confusion, and defensiveness are fully human — and biologically intelligent — especially when we’re carefully holding space for others.

This is not about blame. It is about recognizing that perfectionism and care often live side by side. Our desire to do right by our students can sometimes lead into unsustainable roles. The ongoing pressure to be the expert, the guide, the fixer can quietly drain us. Compassion fatigue and burnout are not signs of failure; they are signs of deep investment. When we bring curiosity and kindness to these patterns, we begin to create space — for our students’ autonomy, and for our own wholeness as teachers. These internal patterns are often echoed in the broader voice culture, where perfectionism quietly shapes the vocabulary we use to talk about singing and teaching.

The Language of Perfectionism in Voice Culture

Voice culture can insidiously reinforce the safe–unsafe binary through language — especially in the way we talk about singing, breathing, technique, and performance. One way this happens is through the use of thought-terminating clichés, a term coined by Amanda Montell in Cultish: The Language of Fanaticism. These are what she calls “semantic stop signs” — tidy, familiar phrases that shut down critical thinking and discourage nuanced conversation, often under the guise of wisdom.

Consider phrases like: “Boys will be boys,” “It’s a matter of opinion,” “Stop thinking so much,” “You either have it or you don’t,” “They’re just tone deaf,” and a common favorite in the studio: “Practice makes perfect.” While often well-intentioned, these sayings oversimplify complex experiences. For instance, “Practice makes perfect” promotes a grind-culture mindset that equates constant effort with seamless outcomes — an idea that feeds directly into perfectionism while ignoring the inherent messiness of artistry.

Language in voice work can easily become coercive, often unintentionally. Take the word technique — a term used frequently but rarely defined. There is technique involved in everything we do, from singing arias to eating popcorn while typing. Yet when we say, “That soprano has bad technique” or “The tenor’s technique is excellent,” without further context, we imply a shared definition that may not actually exist. Worse, we imply a moral judgment — that good technique equates to virtue, and bad technique to failure.

This kind of linguistic ambiguity gives powerful language its weight. Words like technique feel universally understood, yet are vague enough to be used without accountability. When those in authority use these terms without clarification, it can create an atmosphere where less experienced singers fear asking questions — worried they will be seen as “not getting it,” or being wrong. Over time, this can lead to a culture of silence, internalized shame, and even gaslighting.

In academic and performance spaces, it is worth asking: Am I the one with access? If so, am I sharing it — or protecting it? Does my language invite dialogue and complexity, or does it reinforce authority? Who else has access to this space, and how does my body respond to their participation? What am I afraid might be revealed, or lost, if I relinquish control?

The Impact of Perfectionism on the Singing Student

When students experience perfectionism, they may over-evaluate, hyper-criticize, procrastinate, focus on mistakes, and burn out. With so much energy directed to safety-seeking, they may be unable to see where they are thriving, growing. Afraid of making mistakes or failing an impossibly high standard, they can doubt their own capacity for autonomous artistry and stop striving for any standard. Further, many students feel that they have to perform for their teacher rather than engage in process lest they be discounted. In this cycle, it becomes difficult for singers to sustain joy, meaning, and connection.

One of the most powerful tools for working with perfectionism is awareness. Much of what we’ve discussed illuminates how unexamined lineages, norms, methodologies, and language can entrench us in approaches that may not best serve learning or teaching. Awareness provides space for us to notice patterns of safety-seeking without assigning shame or morality.

First, we cultivate a capacity to respond rather than react. For example, we may be confronted with a student’s urgency around audition preparation. We sense their need for us to “fix” their voice just in time to wow the panel. These moments can elicit strong emotional reactions — especially when the expectation feels overwhelming or unreasonable. To skillfully stay with our student’s urgency and respond thoughtfully, it can be helpful to use a somatic or external anchor that supports present moment attunement.

Oren Jay Sofer, a mindfulness and Nonviolent Communication instructor, suggests using what he calls Methods for Presence in his book “Say What You Mean, A Mindful Approach to Non-

Violent Communication.” These include resting your attention on the sensation of the breath, gravity, touch points (hands and feet), the centerline (the spine as the central supportive structure in the body), or aspects of the environment (such as sounds, colors, and textures). Taking a moment during a charged interaction to connect with one of these anchors can help us regulate, gain clarity, and respond from our values rather than our enculturation.

Connecting with like-minded teachers who can help us soften, stay curious, remain accountable, navigate push-back, and check in with our bodies — these are all ways to support the non-linear process of disentangling from perfectionism.

As we’ve explored, we may have learned perfectionism as a coping strategy in musical communities where those with power demanded their version of excellence — or else. As private teachers, it can also feel isolating when we long to shift the narrative yet find ourselves continually in conflict with aspects of cultural conditioning; however, if we learned perfectionism in community, it makes sense that we might also un-learn it in community.

Connecting with like-minded teachers who can help us soften, stay curious, remain accountable, navigate pushback, and check in with our bodies — these are all ways to support the non-linear process of disentangling from perfectionism.

In our experience, this work is more about asking questions than receiving definitive answers. Notice if any of these prompts help you to reflect on your experience in a new way:

• How does my body respond when a singer is determined to be “fixed?” Do I feel urgency to provide the “right tool” immediately? How does teaching from this urgency impact me and my students?

• What stories about my perceived effective or ineffective teaching pervade my thoughts? How do they impact how I am able to be present with myself and those with whom I work?

• Do I notice myself feeling ashamed or overwhelmed by perceived gaps in my teaching knowledge, especially from the deluge of advice on social media? At what point does “professional development” become an answer-seeking protective strategy, whispering: When I learn xyz, I will be enough.

The Practice of Un-learning Perfectionism

Spontaneous sound-making can help voice teachers build awareness of how perfectionism feels in the body — and how we might work with its often painful impact. As with any somatic inquiry, trust your present experience when deciding whether or not these practices feel appropriate. Becoming aware of internal sensations, sounds, and emotions may not feel safe. Take time to discern the right pace for yourself and/ or your students.

Singing What Longs to Be Sounded

Developed by Christina Kent, this practice invites us to step outside of technical precision and reconnect with the raw, expressive impulse at the heart of singing. Sometimes our singing practice can feel like it primes us for perfectionism and hyper-criticism. Whether you’re about to begin a teaching day or preparing to sing yourself, spontaneous sound prompts can be a powerful way to disentangle from the belief that singing is only about achieving a certain tonal outcome or guarding against perceived flaws.

In this practice, the core invitation is to sing what longs to be sounded. This might be a sigh, a grunt, a yell, or a whimper. It could be speaking or singing a word, a phrase, or creating an improvised melody. All sounds are welcome. The heart of the practice is to allow your real, in-the-moment emotional experience to guide your sound-making.

To begin, take a moment to connect with the sensation of your body in space. If you’re sitting, perhaps notice the contact between your body and the chair. If you’re standing, bring your awareness to the feeling of the ground beneath your feet.

Next, turn inward and gently check in with how you’re feeling. You may notice a clear emotional tone — like exhaustion, irritation, excitement, or contentment. If so, allow a sound to emerge that expresses that feeling.

If clarity doesn’t come right away, that’s okay. See if a sound wants to emerge that gives shape to the ambiguity. It might be a hum, a grumble, or even the word “uncertain.” Let your experience be sounded.

Take pauses between your sounds to reconnect with your body — your chair, the ground beneath your feet, your breath. Then return to the question, “What longs to be sounded?” and let the next sound emerge. Continue in this way until the practice feels complete for you.

If you notice judgment arising around the sounds you’re making, know that this is completely okay — and entirely human. When you notice judgment, see if you can gently label it as “thinking” or “evaluating,” let it go, and return to the feeling of your body and the next sound that wants to be expressed.

Stay with the practice for as long as it feels meaningful. You may find that one sound is enough, or that several vocalizations come and go. When you feel complete, take a few quiet breaths. Let yourself settle, and gently notice any shifts in your emotional state, your vocal energy, or your overall awareness. This closing moment is an opportunity to simply witness — without judgment — what has changed, or what has remained the same.

Falling Practice

One of our favorite exercises to incorporate in sessions is something we call The Falling Practice. This is adapted from a practice we learned from Jungian Somatics creator Jane Clapp in her Movement for Trauma courses.

To begin, notice how your body responds to the word falling. Notice any signals of danger or safety. This might be particularly difficult if past experiences have involved physical harm. Is there a correlation between this relationship and perceived failure? The sensation of slipping — in our bodies, our education, our music, our business, or our teaching — is often met with immediate coursecorrection, with an emphasis on regaining balance rather than allowing space for upset. Many of us were never able to explore the inevitably human impacts of wobble, shake, instability, or spontaneous sound and movement in singing spaces. These moments were usually met with correction — sometimes accompanied by moralizing or ableist messages that equated balance with success and falling with failure, as if both could be measured on a binary scale of good versus bad. What would it feel like to decouple falling from morality in our singing practice?

In this exercise, we are intentionally throwing ourselves off balance — exploring movement possibilities and noticing the sensations that arise as we near the moment of falling. These sensations often mirror those we experience in times of stress, anxiety, urgency, anticipation, frustration, or anger. Becoming aware of how these feelings show up in the body can help us not necessarily to change them, but to be with them more consciously. To notice them with a little less surprise, a little less fear. This can be a particularly useful tool for those who struggle with performance anxiety or the inner critic of perfectionism. It helps us explore the edges of discomfort and uncertainty — often remnants of physiological and psychological responses to threat.

While seated or standing, grab something to balance — a ball on a book, or two objects you can precariously stack.

Begin by observing both the balanced object and the movement of your breath in your body. Notice especially if your breath tends to pause or “grip” anywhere — perhaps in the torso, jaw, hips, or shoulders.

Then, slowly begin to move the object. Pay attention to how your body responds as the object nears the edge or falls. Ask yourself: What cues of speed, urgency, or tightening am I receiving? Can I begin again, knowing there is no right or wrong here?

If the object falls, notice any jolt or tensing in your body. Breathe. Start again. Remind yourself that this is a playful way to explore your body’s response to falling — to “mistake.”

If you are able to continue your breath cycle as the object falls, you might raise the stakes a bit. Our brains benefit from novelty — so get creative! You might pass a ball between two books, stand on one foot, or intentionally wobble back and forth to increase the challenge.

This is a powerful activity to invite gentle discomfort — to fall within the boundary of playfulness and get back up again. So often, as musicians and teachers, it becomes difficult to fall — to feel out of control, to explore what scares us, to test the edges of what might be possible, to find new ways to connect and create.

Revolutionary Imperfection

The desire to be fixed is very different from the desire to learn and grow. The desire to be fixed holds within it the perfectionistic belief that nothing is ever good enough. Unlike a growth mindset, the feeling of never good enough strips both students and teachers of the ability to recognize when a song or aria is complete. It keeps both firmly entrenched in fault-finding and negativity bias, unable to witness artistry or celebrate when a piece is simply ready to be shared.

Everyone can benefit from asking: Is this complete? Does the idea of completeness feel dangerous? If so, why?

In reflecting on how perfectionism may be shaping your teaching, we offer these final thoughts. You might use them as a meditation — choose a few prompts that resonate, and keep them near your teaching space:

• Perfectionism is safety-seeking at all costs. It emerges slowly, as a skillful adaptation to environments that feel unsafe. Instead of asking, “What makes me come alive when I sing?” perfectionism asks, “How do I stay safe when I sing?”

• It has us scanning for danger, ruminating on what went wrong. Unlearning this reflex invites a new question: “What went right? How can I build on that?”

• It asks, “How do I gain approval from my audience?”

Unlearning asks instead: “How do I satisfy my own artistic desires?”

• It narrows our perspective, equating vocal flaws with personal failure. Unlearning disentangles perceived mistakes from our identity, goodness, and worth. Perfectionism asks, “How do I sing without flaws?” Unlearning asks, “How can I receive my voice with compassion, even when ‘flaws’ appear?”

• Perfectionism keeps us from knowing who we really are. And to the extent we can’t show up fully, we remain limited. So we might ask: What holds me up, if not perfectionism?

There is wisdom and creative power in building a strong self-image and cultivating a deep somatic sense of Self. Perfectionism, by contrast, often masquerades as our only support — while simultaneously blocking access to our true foundation.

So, what would we say to our younger selves — the kid on the church piano bench, the undergraduate opera student? Perhaps something like this:

My self-worth does not depend on my ability to play, sing, or teach. The experience of singing is not made meaningful by avoiding shame or scanning voices for flaws. Singing matters because it is proof that I am alive — resonance is an affirmation of vitality. It is the sound of my unique identity, story, and emotional world.

Imperfection is revolutionary. It is a counter-cultural — and at times, transgressive — act that embraces duality: I can strive for excellence and still make mistakes; claim vocal autonomy; maintain emotional boundaries; and reject non-consensual feedback, especially from those who do not honor my dignity.

What if I — showing up, just as I am — am enough?

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Megan Durham, MM, SVS, PAVA-RV maintains Respire Vocal Wellness, a private studio offering trauma-informed voice care. She is a founding member of the Voice and Trauma Research and Connection Group, and co-learns with students at Bellarmine University and the University of Louisville.

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Christina Kent (MMus) is a singer, voice teacher, workshop facilitator, and founder of Mindful Sound Studio. She performs across genres, teaches privately, and leads workshops that integrate mindfulness into vocal exploration. With a traumainformed, holistic approach, Christina helps singers find joyful, embodied connection to their voices and authentic expression.